


Möbius

by esteefee



Series: Fair Trade [5]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Earth, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Disability, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-24
Updated: 2009-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:16:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets his surgery. An event from Rodney's past rises up to endanger him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Möbius

**Author's Note:**

> [Podfic read by Wihluta](http://www.audiofic.jinjurly.com/mobius).
> 
> (Cover art is [ HERE](http://esteefee.com/imgs/moebius_cover.jpg).)
> 
> [Crysothemis](http://crysothemis.livejournal.com) saved me from myself in so many ways by betaing this story.
> 
> Thanks to [cold_cheese](http://cold_cheese.livejournal.com) for VA Compensation research!

Zeke made a show of looking at his watch when John limped in on Monday afternoon, and right away John knew he was in for some ribbing.

Usually John tried to show up early for his shift—Zeke and Anna had a baby, and John wanted to give them as much time together as possible. But he'd felt like being selfish this morning. Rodney had been a warm puddle next to him under the comforter, and John had spent a good hour just watching him sleep, memorizing the fine lines creasing the corners of Rodney's funny-looking mouth, and the way Rodney's light-colored lashes fanned out across his cheeks. And how he frowned a little, as if that busy brain were still going full-tilt in his dreams.

Funny how long it had taken for John to match this guy with the one he'd been flirting with online, wanting so badly to impress the genius whose mind was like a diamond, bright and cutting hard. John was no genius, that was for sure. He was damned glad Rodney had figured out John was Blackhawk.

John rubbed his eyes and then put on his apron.

"Tough morning, boss? It's almost one o'clock."

"Sorry about that," John said. "Got tied up."

Zeke raised one eyebrow, and John felt his face heat. "Not like that. Jesus!" But when Zeke laughed, John had to snicker, too.

"So, you're seeing someone?" Zeke asked too casually as he wiped off his hands and picked up the marker for the whiteboard. "Who is she?"

"Uh. Well." John rubbed the back of his neck. He should have been expecting the question, and for a second he almost answered with an automatic lie; fucking with pronouns had become second nature while he was in the service.

But he didn't have to do that anymore. For the first time in his life he could answer straight out, and it was enough to make him smile in wonder as he said, "It's a he, actually. Remember the crazy professor?"

Zeke went still with his back to John, and for a really bad moment John thought he'd fucked up. This was it—goodbye Zeke, goodbye friend. Goodbye to the best roaster John had ever met.

"That's great," Zeke said, turning. "Now maybe you can teach him some manners."

John found himself studying Zeke's face, looking for the discomfort. But Zeke seemed cool, the usual dry smile on his face, with maybe a hint of wicked humor waiting, and John wondered if he'd just let himself in for some major teasing.

"He's all right," John said, his ears still hot. "You've just got to get to know him."

"I'm hoping I do." And that was all sincerity. All Zeke. John felt his stomach unclench.

"Oh, you will, believe me. So, anything I should know about?"

"Yeah, I've got an idea for what to do with the Pachamama. The first test blend was still a little bitter but I think we can correct for that if make it a 68/32 split with the Tanzanian—"

"Zeke."

"Yeah?" Zeke finished scribbling on the board and turned around again.

"There's something else I need to talk to you about." John hadn't even realized he wanted to talk about it until the words were coming out of his mouth. He must've sounded a little weird, because Zeke put down the marker and crossed his arms, looking worried.

"It's not about the job," John said hastily, "only it is, sort of. But really it's about me." God, this was hard. "And so it's about the job, too, because if I do it, it'll mean you'll have to—but you'll like him, and he's real smart, so..." John trailed off helplessly.

"Is this about what Sandi told me?"

"What? What did she tell you?"

Zeke let his arms drop and glanced away, looking uncomfortable. "About you getting that surgery."

"Oh. She told you, huh?" John didn't know what to think about that.

"Yeah. She said you needed to do it, and that we all had to help out to make sure you didn't have an excuse to back out."

"But you've got your own life to worry about. Dylan—"

"Dylan's doing great. He took his first steps yesterday," Zeke said, grinning with pride.

"Wow, already? That's terrific."

"Yeah. Yeah. It's pretty amazing. Next stop: the Superbowl."

"Well, give him some time in college to really get seasoned as a player."

They smiled at each other for a second, then Zeke said, "So, what can I do to help?"

John hadn't really decided he could go through with the surgery yet, except it sounded like the wheels had already started spinning into motion while he wasn't looking.

"McKay's volunteered to handle the swing shift while I'm off my feet," John said slowly. "Which means I'll need you to work with him for a while. Think you can do that? I mean, you don't even know the guy. Maybe we should see if you two get along before we decide—"

"We'll be fine."

"But he's...you know, kind of brilliant, but kind of aggravating, sometimes."

"Yeah, like you aren't?" Zeke chewed his cheek. "I'm easy."

"Oh, way to talk to the boss."

"Sorry, Mr. Boss-man. Sir."

"Aw, shut up."

They grinned at each other.

"So, I guess I'm gonna do this thing," John said finally. "Gotta train McKay first, and figure some other stuff out, though."

"I'll be here, okay?" Zeke said, then grimaced. "Except I'm going home now. Anna's taking the day off, and we're all going to the park."

"Sounds great. I'll see you tomorrow. And...thanks."

"No problem. Have a good one."

John checked the board, then looked in on Little Nemo, pulling some beans using the sample trier to check on the internal temperature. Little Nemo could be problematic after first crack, so John bumped the thermostat a little and then went back into his office to look at his bank account. He hadn't even seriously thought about the numbers, but it was time he did if he really was going through with this thing.

By the time Rodney showed up after his meeting, John had his head buried in his arms and was seriously thinking about running away to Canada. He'd spent two hours phoning and faxing, and near as he could figure, the surgery would cost him about three thousand dollars out of pocket if he decided to have it done by Dr. Dex at St. Mary's instead of at the V.A.

It was a no-brainer of a decision. Ronon was exactly the specialist he needed, and at the V.A. it would be sheer luck for him to get a surgeon as skilled at this particular procedure.

The costs would be way more than John had expected. But Dr. Dex's detailed fax was very clear—John wouldn't be able to put any weight at all on his leg for the first three weeks, which meant crutches, which meant he'd be trapped in his apartment the entire time, since he doubted he could make his way up and down the stairs more than once a day. And he'd have to cab it everywhere he went, to all his post-op visits and physical therapy.

"You look like someone pissed in your granola," Rodney said as he came in.

John groaned and raised his head. "Hey. How was your meeting?"

"Oh, it went well. _Very_ well," Rodney said, rubbing his hands together. "The nimrods in Accounting have finally caved in to my demands and are budgeting the Möbius exhibit for this quarter."

"That's great," John said listlessly.

"Hey, it was your idea!"

"No, I know. Really great, Rodney. C'mere."

Rodney came around John's desk, and John pulled him down by his shirt for a kiss. "Mmm."

"What's all this stuff?" Rodney poked a finger at the pile of papers.

"Nothing. Just...stuff."

"Looks like one of your pathetically easy math challenges."

"Hey, my challenges are plenty tough," John said, shuffling the papers together and stuffing them into his desk drawer. "You up for your first roasting lesson?"

"Absolutely. Absolutely." Rodney folded his hands together, intoning, "The science of coffee. There can be no better pursuit."

"Don't get your hopes up. It's not astrophysics." John pushed himself to his feet, and Rodney backed away to give him room to maneuver. On the way out, John couldn't resist steering Rodney between the shoulders, giving him a little shove and making him complain.

"This," John said, "is the roasting room."

"It's beautiful." Rodney sounded almost reverent as he looked around. "Like Willy Wonka's for grown-ups."

John smiled with pride. It was pretty cool-looking, with the shiny roasters lined up, their vents angling toward the ceiling. "We use Little Nemo for the smaller roasts," he said, pointing, "Simba and Mulan for standard roasts. And this is the DeLorean," John said, placing a proprietary hand on his baby. "She does everything."

Rodney groaned. "I bet you named that one. You heathen believer-in-flux-capacitors."

"Yup."

"Like someone could actually harness _lightning_ to do anything useful beyond frying their brains."

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

"Ha." Rodney paused and looked thoughtful. "Actually, that would make a great exhibit for the Exploratorium. Fry the little kids' brains."

"Nice. And sick. Moving on...over here on the white board we track the jobs going on. I copy them to my spreadsheet before we clear the board once a week. You can see what we've got going on right now is a Peruvian blend—that's Zeke's baby—that I've just dumped from Little Nemo to the cooling tray."

"That explains why it smells so damned good in here."

John took a deep breath through his nose. "It always does. Actually, you can tell a lot by how things are smelling. And by how they look and sound. When the beans first start heating up they lose water through steam, but once the water burns away they start to smell a little like toasting bread." John pulled out the sample trier so Rodney could see. "These guys are almost at first crack, so they've started to darken a little from caramelizing sugars, but also due to browning caused by the Maillard Reaction."

John turned his head and saw Rodney staring at him with a small smile on his face.

"Uh, so first crack sounds a little bit like popcorn popping. It's an exothermic reaction—the beans are giving off heat—but after first crack they become endothermic. That's when you have to be careful—you can stall the roasting by causing an interruption in the long-chain polymerization of the sugars if you don't keep the temperature rising. Um—"

Rodney's lips were suddenly playing with John's ear.

"L-little Nemo has trouble with that so sometimes you have to give him a kick," John managed to say, and then Rodney started dragging him backward.

"I think you should show me this next," Rodney said, opening a door behind him.

"The storage room? You've already seen it."

"Yes, except, see, hearing you talk about polymerization has made me incredibly horny."

"Oh," John said, grinning, and then pushed Rodney into the storeroom and pulled the door shut behind them. "Well, we'll have to do something about that."

"Something, yeah," Rodney mumbled, grabbing at him, and then John found his shoulder by touch, and zeroed in on his funny mouth, lips seeking and finding the fit they'd discovered a few days ago. Jesus, was it only a few days? It felt so easy kissing Rodney—John didn't have to worry if Rodney liked it, that was for damned sure. Not with the way he was moaning into John's mouth and pawing at the front of his pants.

"God, I want to _do_ things to you, you really have no idea," Rodney said, one hand slipping around John's waist to grip his ass.

"We could—you could do that," John mumbled, his dick throbbing with wanting it. He was pretty sure he could handle being fucked if he were lying on his good side. Pretty sure. "Just...not right here," he said, pulling back reluctantly.

"No?" Rodney sounded crestfallen.

"All the supplies are in here, and if Sandi catches us, it'll mean no hot paninis for lunch."

"I could...accept that," Rodney said reluctantly, his warm breath brushing across John's face.

"Plus, she'll post candid photos on her Facebook page," John murmured, kissing Rodney's neck.

"She wouldn't!"

"She would. She has a camera in her iPhone and isn't afraid to use it."

"That's...appalling."

"Yeah." They stood in the dark, holding each other for a moment before drawing apart.

"I'll install a lock," Rodney said firmly. "First thing tomorrow."

John grinned and opened the door.

:::

Rodney growled with frustration, prompting John to look up from his crossword.

"What is it now?"

"These schematics are all off. And considering I spoon-fed them to the designer, you'd think he would've managed to come up with blueprints that didn't ensure the Möbius would topple over mid-demonstration and crush all the tiny people watching."

"Right. That would be bad," John said, nodding seriously.

"Darn right." Rodney did a double take. "Oh, you're mocking me."

"Yep."

"Because it's all fun and games until the decapitations."

"Even then."

"Ha. This is _your_ idea, I remind you. I'll be sure they remember to name you in the suit."

"Lawyers," John said darkly.

"Lawyers," Rodney agreed, making a gesture with one hand that could have meant 'evil, brain-sucking water snakes.'

While John stared at Rodney's slanted mouth and thought about dragging his cranky ass back into the storeroom, Rodney started composing what John was sure was an email that would shrivel the designer's nuts into useless shells, mumbling out loud, "...if you ever finished Algebra 101..." and "...rightful place in the annals of historical catastrophes... _Titanic_... _mumble_...the _Hindenburg_...pale in comparison."

"There," Rodney said, slamming the return key.

"Guess you showed him what fer," John agreed.

"Hmm, yes. Coffee now." Rodney wandered off to the counter, said something that made Ahsarvat laugh, and returned with refills for them both.

"So, should we continue the training?" Rodney asked. "We hardly got started before you interrupted us."

"Me? _You_ were the one who—" John looked around and then hissed, "—got us distracted."

"Yes, whatever. Lead on, MacDuff."

John shook his head and took his coffee with him into the back. He showed Rodney the various settings on the roasters and how they differed, went over the roasting times and temperature charts—painfully penciled in by John and then cheerfully corrected by Zeke when it turned out what worked in the summer didn't work in the fall. The charts were labeled by roaster, with different times and temperatures per bean type and roast.

Rodney caught on very quickly—extremely so, jumping ahead on almost every point—and John felt a strange pride that he identified as, _that's my guy._ The thought made John stutter and stumble just as he was showing Rodney how to load the top bins.

"Zeke usually fills these in the morning," John said. "We use these magnets to show what green is in which. Oh, and the hours—Zeke is six to two, and usually I come in around one, or earlier since Zeke had his kid. But you'll—you can work things out with him," John got out in a rush, thinking how nuts he was to be laying all this on Rodney.

Rodney was staring up at the ceiling. "You realize you have an air leak somewhere?"

"Hmm? Yeah. There's some warping where the vents meet the ceiling."

"Doesn't that affect the temperatures?"

"Well, some. But there's not a lot we can do about that. Anyway, except for the DeLorean, these are all are pretty inefficient machines. You wouldn't believe our gas bills. So," John gave Rodney a nudge, "that's about it. There's a roaster's guide around here somewhere; I'll dig it up for you and you can read through it."

John went back to his office and opened the storage cabinet, then located the guide and handed it to Rodney, who had followed him in. "We generally do the single origins as a light City Roast, and the blends we pull half-way through second crack."

Rodney smirked a little. "You just love the jargon, don't you?"

John shrugged, but couldn't help smiling.

"So, when do I start?"

"Start?" John's gut rolled suddenly.

"Yes. I assume you'll want to apprentice me until you're satisfied by my performance, at which point you'll be free to—" Rodney gestured at John's hip.

"Hang on, there. I don't even know when this is going to happen—or even if I can swing it."

"Oh?" Rodney leaned against the door frame and tapped the guide against his leg.

John ducked his chin. "I have to finish working out the numbers."

"The numbers. As in that mess of chicken-scratchings you were crying on when I stopped by."

"Told you to get your eyes checked," John said, but his joke fell flat, and Rodney was staring at him as if he were a particularly stubborn equation. "I don't know if I can afford it right now."

"What? You're a veteran, John. Surely your stupid Air Force will pay to fix what they...they broke."

John gritted his teeth. "I'm not broken, McKay."

"Oh, so now I'm 'McKay.'"

"Sorry. I didn't mean that." John took a deep breath. "Look, they'll pay for the surgery, yeah, at the Vet Hospital. But because I'm going to an outside surgeon, I have to pay a co-payment for his fee and part of the hospital bills—whatever Fair Trade's employee insurance doesn't cover. And then there's the little fact I live at the top of sixty-seven stairs and will need someone to stop by and bring me food and help me around the place."

Rodney opened his mouth, and John raised his hand. "And it can't be you, Rodney, because you'll be here doing _my_ job. I'll need to cab it to the hospital and to physical therapy. And I just don't have the cash for all this. All my money's in the roastery right now."

"Wow," Rodney said when John finally finished. "You really are an idiot."

John glared.

"No, seriously—idi-ot," Rodney sang. "Two particles short of a mole."

"It's plain _math_ , Rodney. And I'm pretty damned good at math, you could remember."

"You're not factoring in all the variables," Rodney said stubbornly. He tucked the guide under his arm and held up a finger. "Number one—there is no way in hell Ronon is going to let you pay out of your pocket for this. He told me about that guy, Hal? The one who practically put him through medical school? And, two, Sandi and Ahsarvat can take turns checking in on you. They could just call and see if you need anything and bring it by. They _want_ to help. And three, and this is where you are the biggest idiot in the known universe: you could stay with me." Rodney frowned and looked away. "You _should_ stay with me. I have _no stairs_. And I could—we could talk. Or you could play with my PlayStation—"

"You have a PlayStation?" John asked weakly, his brain spinning a little.

"Of course."

"Rodney, I can't ask you—"

"You're not asking." Rodney pushed him until John sat on his desk, then crowded in close. "The first time you were in the hospital you didn't _tell_ me you were, so I couldn't do anything. This time I can."

"Rodney—"

"Ah-ah-ah! Shut up and say you'll stay with me until you're back on your feet."

John was seriously tempted, but he couldn't see laying all this on Rodney only having really known the guy for a couple of weeks. "I don't—"

"I live half a block away from here. You could hobble on over any old time you wanted."

_Oh._

"Mmm-hmm? Is that capitulation I see? Really, you are incredibly stubborn, you know that? What's it going to take? I have location. I have no stairs. I have _toys_ , Sheppard. And not just the PlayStation. I have porn—"

"Sold."

"Because of the porn?" Rodney looked a little shocked at his capitulation.

"No, Rodney. Because you are an indomitable force in a universe of chaos."

Rodney flashed a grin. "And because of the porn."

John sighed. "And because of the porn."

:::

The next couple of weeks were purely insane. Once John made arrangements for the surgery with Ronon, it seemed like everything stepped up a notch.

Training Rodney to do roasts was like training a fox to feed the chickens. Every time they made any progress at all Rodney would step out to get another cup of coffee. By the end of the day he was jittering harder than a jackhammer.

And John also had to get his affairs in order. He knew the surgery wasn't a huge risk—he was strong, and young enough he wasn't likely to go toes up from a little general anesthesia, but he couldn't just leave things to chance. He went to see a lawyer and had his will drawn up, and balanced his damned checkbook and made sure all his papers were filed.

And then there was Punk.

Punk had to be very carefully introduced to Ada, Rodney's cat, or there was bound to be fur flying. But Rodney seemed almost embarrassed to have John over, and kept putting off the introduction. When he finally let John bring Punk over, it was obvious why.

Rodney was a slob.

Not in the most disgusting sense—there wasn't food drying on old plates or a smelly mess in the bathroom. But there were clothes, books and blueprints piled everywhere. All of his CDs and DVDs were out of their cases. And he had a bag of Cheetos stuck behind the cushion of his couch, which John discovered when he sat down and heard an ominous crunch.

"I'll tidy up, of course," Rodney said, sounding nervous, "before you come to stay. We can't have you trying to crutch around this obstacle course."

"I dunno. I might like the challenge." John set down Punk's carrier and cautiously opened the gate. A second later, Punk came bounding out. She seemed to be excited about having a new environment to explore, and went sniffing around the apartment like a hound dog, making snuffling sounds and peering under and climbing on top of everything.

Ada made herself scarce, but slunk out again when Punk went sniffing near her hiding place in the hallway closet. Both cats froze when they saw each other, and then Punk made a weird sound and sidled up to Ada, whose tail was all fluffed up. Punk nosed against her, and then plopped to show her belly, one paw flicking at the air.

Ada shook her fur out and daintily walked away.

"Well, seems Ada's a stick in the ass just like you," John commented to Rodney, who huffed and showed John _his_ ass.

:::

After two weeks of teaching Rodney the ropes all day in the roasting room, neither of them had any energy for more than hasty hand-jobs before crashing into sleep. On Sunday John had to head in at six a.m., and his hip was complaining, so on Saturday night he told Rodney he was going to go home and get to bed early. His surgery was just a few days away.

He should have realized Rodney was maybe feeling a little put off or something, but John was still surprised when Rodney showed up late on Sunday morning looking cranky as hell. It was like a return to the first day they'd met; Rodney even snapped at Sandi, who for some reason glared at John before bringing Rodney an extra-large cup of coffee—in John's personal mug, if that didn't beat all—and the last, coveted salt bagel from the House of Bagels.

John came up behind Rodney, who was digging through the pile of newspapers in the basket, and goosed him.

"Hey!" Rodney spun around.

"Sorry," John said, completely unrepentant. "Too tempting a target."

An uncertain smile flashed across Rodney's face before he scowled darkly.

"Hi." John nudged up against him, pressing Rodney back against the counter. Rodney looked surprised, but John didn't back off. "I was—last night, when I wanted to go home..." John steeled himself to say it. "My hip was acting up, okay? And sometimes when it's like that, it's all I can think about. Like there isn't room in my head for anything except, you know, _ow._ And I can be a dick when I'm like that, and I didn't want to be a dick to you."

"Oh. Well, you could have _said_ something." Rodney crossed his arms, pushing John back a little. "I thought you were already—often people tire of my company," he finished formally.

"Jesus, no. No, Rodney—" And in spite of all the customers and Sandi looking on, John kissed him, trapping him against the counter until Rodney melted into him.

"Okay," Rodney said, cheeks flushed.

"Okay?"

"Yes. But in future, I'd appreciate it if you would come clean a little sooner."

"Yeah, I know, it's just...it's hard to talk about."

"Why?"

John could see how Rodney would be confused. He'd often used the mathpuzzlers list to complain about his tendinitis or his hypoglycemia or his horrible allergies, and John had always winced at seeing Doubledoc being so honest about things. Rodney just didn't get how, to John, it was exposing something, leaving him open to attack.

"It's a mind-set," was all John said. "But I'll do better."

Rodney's mood improved after that. John was amazed he'd had that much of an effect, and swore to himself to be more careful, not to fuck this up.

They worked across the table from each other for the rest of the afternoon, John throwing Rodney an occasional comment, or asking him to solve a clue from his puzzle. After closing time, with Ahsarvat already gone and John doing a final sweep-up, Rodney grunted something at his computer, and John sauntered over to see what he was grumbling about.

"It's this very stupid idea Director Weir had about pointing a viewer at the Golden Gate Bridge for the kids to peep through."

"And?"

"Well, of course the bridge is a huge, man-made structure—marvelous engineering, really, but it's still affected by wind, traffic, moisture, and temperature changes... Essentially, I pointed a calibrated telescope at the bridge, but there's no way to stop the damned thing from _moving_ all the time. Of course. And I'm not sure what mechanism I can provide to give them an unchanging view."

With a bitter twinge, John remembered flying his chopper under a bridge once—a stunt for the Air Force's air show back when he was still one of the golden boys. It had taken some serious instrument calibration to ensure he didn't go slamming into the side or down into the water.

"So, don't."

Rodney frowned.

"I mean, all that stuff—traffic, wind, temp changes—that's all part of it. So why not show it in the view? Like the display in RoboCop's visor—show the temperature, the wind, how many pounds of pressure the cars are putting on the bridge...so that will explain why it moves—"

"—and the kids will like knowing something so huge can still be affected by external forces. It's a demonstration of chaos theory, in a way."

John grinned, pleased to see Rodney's eyes glowing that particular shade of blue that meant he was really excited about something. Probably an expression John wouldn't get to see much for a while since his surgery was scheduled for the next morning.

There was a sudden scrape of a chair, and then Rodney was up and grabbing John by the ears to land a hard kiss on his mouth. "You're amazing. Can we go to the storeroom? Because having such a smart boyfriend is making me incredibly horny."

John laughed a little and ducked his head. "Hell, you don't need an excuse for that." It still felt weird hearing Rodney call him that.

"No, no, I realize. You're not only hot but incredibly slutty as well, which—bonus for me! So, let's go."

John followed, still laughing, and let Rodney yank open his pants and push him against a high stack of bean sacks. The smell of coffee was all around them, and Rodney's hands were on his face while they kissed. John squirmed a little—his pants had drooped and the burlap was scratching his ass.

"Burlap's rough," John complained, and grabbed Rodney to pull himself up. Rodney kissed him again, his hands smoothing down John's shirt and then running over his ass. His fingers slipped between John's cheeks.

"Oh," John said, thinking about what he wanted to do. What he'd been wanting to do for ages, it seemed. Tomorrow he was going under the knife, which meant this could be his last chance for a long goddamned time. "C'mon," he said, and pushed down his pants, then turned to drape himself over the waist-high stack, letting it take most of his weight. He couldn't spread his legs very far apart thanks to his hip, but he stuck his ass out as far as he could.

"Oh, God, two of my favorite things. Coffee and a view of your ass."

John snorted. "Tell me I remembered to lock the front door."

"The door is locked. Tell me you have a condom, preferably lubed."

"It's in my back pocket. Been, you know, carrying it around—"

Rodney knelt and fumbled it free. "Bless you, you are the holiest of boyfriends."

"Less blessing, more fucking," John said, then pulled in a breath when Rodney's spit-slick fingers slipped inside, impatient but confident, and John let out a soft moan of encouragement.

"Really?" Rodney sounded breathless. "Because, I know this isn't the best possible location, but I've wanted to do this for a long time. Ever since I first saw you and those ridiculous jeans that are constantly threatening to fall right off your hips—" Rodney rubbed what felt like his knuckles against the rim of John's ass, and John moaned again, wanting it so badly.

"Don't tease," John forced out. "Do it. Just do it."

"Already?" Rodney said, but he smoothly slipped his fingers out and held his cock there, blunt and hard at John's hole. John pushed himself open and took Rodney inside when he thrust.

"God, this is my new favorite thing," Rodney moaned, wiggling deeper.

"Better than coffee?" John tried to ask, but he'd lost his breath trying to hold in his moans, and it came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yes," Rodney said, starting to thrust, using shorter strokes right where John needed them, the head of his cock hitting John's sweet spot over and over.

God this was good. He was going to pay for it later, he knew—not enough prep, and he could feel the strain in his hip, but Rodney's cock was so thick and hard. John tightened around it to feel it better, to feel all of it, Rodney's cock pinning him wide open, taking him. He relaxed into the thrusts, not trying to meet them, just letting himself be used.

"So, so good, Rodney."

Rodney murmured wordless encouragement and kept moving inside him.

Suddenly John was way too close to coming, and he reached down and squeezed hard at the base of his cock to hold it off. He did not plan on throwing out a hundred pound bag of green because he'd managed to cover it with spunk.

Rodney didn't seem to notice—he was moaning into the back of John's shirt, and his hands closed too tightly on John's hips. Suddenly it was no problem for John to hold off, the pain giving him focus, and he squeezed around Rodney's cock again, smiling in satisfaction when Rodney groaned and froze still, his cock jerking in John's ass.

"God. God," Rodney gasped. "Killed me."

John slid a hand up his cock to rub the head a little, keeping himself right on the edge. When Rodney pulled out, John let go to push himself to his feet. His hip was really unhappy with the whole maneuver, but as soon as John turned, Rodney slid to his knees and sucked him into his hot mouth, one finger slipping inside John's loosened hole to stroke right behind his nuts, and that was all John needed. He groaned as he came, shoving back against Rodney's finger so it pressed in hard, giving him a flash of blinding pleasure.

"Je-Jesus." John shuddered and jerked again when Rodney gave him a last, wet suck.

"Now you see why you should always do as I say?" Rodney said, looking up with an unholy grin.

"You're a bonafide genius," John said before giving him a kiss.

They both fumbled themselves together and stumbled to the bathroom, taking turns at cleaning up, trading kisses and bumping together between tasks as if they were connected by an invisible rubber band.

With a final kiss at the front door, they hovered before splitting up, John to go to his place, and Rodney to his own.

"Good luck. Tomorrow. Not that you need luck, although these physicians, as I understand it, aren't so much scientists as they are practitioners of voodoo and witchcraft."

John expression must have tipped Rodney off, because Rodney continued hurriedly, "Although I'm told Ronon is quite excellent with...the cutting."

"I'll be fine, Rodney."

"Yes, of course. Of course you will."

Of course he would. He just had to get through the next two months.

:::

John woke up at five a.m. and biked himself to the hospital, his last ride before he'd be laid up for way too long. He locked up his bike right in front where he'd told Rodney he'd leave it, and then went up to the surgical suite, where they made him strip and put on a cloth gown and some stupid-looking booties. The prep nurse who put in his I.V. had some sort of sadistic streak, because she found the one place to stick it where it hurt the most. It hurt more than his hip, which was saying a lot since it had been acting up ever since Rodney had fucked him.

That was a good memory, though, and John held onto it rather than thinking about where he was. Everything felt unreal—the lights were too bright for this early in the morning, and the prep room was cold, downright chilly. The nurses all gave him too-sympathetic smiles, reminding him of the general's aide who had ushered him into his court martial. They gave him a handout to read while he waited, but he barely skimmed it, fighting the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Even Ronon looked weird, half his face hidden behind his surgical mask, when they wheeled John into the operating room.

"You ready to do this, John?"

"Yeah," John croaked, mouth a little dry. He hadn't had anything to drink since the night before.

Ronon leaned over him and mock-whispered. "I was sure you were gonna chicken out on me."

"In your dreams." John winced when his I.V. stung.

"You all right?"

"I.V. hurts like a bitch," John said. "Not to be a wimp or anything."

Ronon smiled, cheeks lifting his mask, and then nodded at someone. John blinked when a beautiful woman appeared at his side.

"This is Doctor Cho. Best anesthesiologist on the team."

She looked to be about twenty years old, but John didn't say anything, just nodded.

"Let me see if I can fix your I.V.," she said, and removed the tape over the needle, "Sometimes it goes into a valve and can be very painful."

Ronon tapped his leg. "Just to make sure, I'm working on the hip with this big, blue X on it."

"Yeah. That's the one."

"All right. Like I told you, I'm gonna do this as uninvasively as I can. Should only take a couple of hours. First I'll fix up your labrum, then I'll see what I can do about the scar tissue. If I find ligament or cartilage damage, it may take a little longer."

"Okay." The pain was gone from John's hand, and he blinked down to see Dr. Cho had already re-inserted the needle in a different vein.

"Better?" she asked, and John said, "Yeah, much. Thanks."

"Okay, Mr. Sheppard, I'm going to give you something to relax."

"'M pretty relaxed," John protested.

"But we want you _really_ relaxed," Ronon said. His eyes crinkled above his mask.

John felt something warm flowing up his arm, and he stopped protesting. This was good. This was all right.

"Can you count down from ten for me, John?"

"'Kay. Ten...nine..."

:::

He woke up at one point feeling like ice shards were being pushed through his hip, and he winced, his jaw clenching against it.

"John, are you in pain?"

John shook his head, but they did something anyway, and he went away again.

:::

The sound of his own voice woke him up. He was talking apparently. John blinked his eyes open and saw Teyla standing beside his bed.

"...and so I told him it would be all right. But he's a worry-wart, you know?"

"Yes, John, I am well aware." Teyla sounded like she was holding back a laugh.

"And then he—huh?" John blinked harder.

"Are you with me, John?"

"Teyla? What're you doin' here?"

Teyla did laugh then. "Ah. Well, as I explained earlier, I stopped by to check in on you."

"Oh. Thanks a lot."

"Yes, you already thanked me profusely, John."

"I did?"

"Mmm-hmm. And then you told me a fascinating story about...your cat, among other things. Are you in any pain?"

"I don't think so." He could feel heat in his hip, and it felt heavy—hugely heavy, like a bowling ball. But it didn't really hurt.

Teyla squeezed his hand, and he had to open his eyes again. "John, you must tell the nurse if it begins to hurt. It's very important that you not be in pain, especially at this critical point. It can only hinder your recovery."

"Yes, ma'am. Hey, Teyla?"

"Yes, John?"

"Thanks a lot."

:::

  
  



:::

Rodney was there when John woke up again. John knew it was him even before he opened his eyes—the pounding on the keyboard was a dead giveaway.

"Hey," Rodney said, and pushed his fingers through John's hair, his palm resting on John's forehead as if he were taking John's temperature.

The touch made John's eyes sting for a moment.

"'Spose to be minding the roast," John said gruffly. And— _ow_ —his hip really, really hurt now. It felt like the bowling ball was on fire.

"It's Monday. Last roast was finished at two."

"Oh, yeah." John's mouth felt gummy. "Any water?"

"Right! Of course." Rodney put his laptop down and poured some water from a pitcher into a little plastic cup. He plunked a straw in it and held it up to John's lips, so John barely had to tilt his head to drink.

"Thanks," he said when he was done.

"I'm supposed to notify the nurse that you've woken up. Also, I was given explicit instructions by Dr. Teyla with respects to getting a straight answer out of you. Are you in pain?"

John shrugged.

"Dope," Rodney said, and held the straw to his lips again. "On a scale from one to ten—"

"Six. I guess. I dunno."

"Barbaric," Rodney muttered, and went steaming off behind the curtain. He returned a few minutes later with a nurse, a really big guy in pink scrubs.

Hot look, John thought.

The nurse said, "Hi, I'm Nurse Davis. I'm the law around these parts." He grinned and untangled John's I.V. again. "How're you feeling? Give me a number on the pain scale."

"He's in agony," Rodney snapped and Davis raised an eyebrow. "Well," Rodney lifted his chin, "He told me 'six,' which, considering the source, is at least an eight to us normal humans."

"Hey," John protested, then listened to throbbing of his hip for a second and admitted, "Yeah, it's pretty bad."

"I'll be right back," Davis said.

"Moron. Nincompoop."

"He seemed okay to me."

"Not him—you. Teyla specifically said you should not let yourself be in pain. Pain causes the muscles to tense, constricting blood flow to the healing area," Rodney rattled out.

"You've been reading the hand-out, haven't you?"

"Well, it's not like there's anything else to read around here. No Wi-Fi, of course. Appalling."

Davis came back in with a hypodermic needle, which he uncapped and pushed into a little valve in John's I.V.

"Oh," John said. He felt about a hundred little muscles unclenching, and suddenly he was as warm as toast.

"See? See?" Rodney said. "I ask you." This was directed to Davis, who just grinned.

"He's going to be a problem, isn't he?"

"Hey," John tried to protest, but it felt like he was talking through cotton. ""M not. Good guy. Just ask Teyla."

"Teyla is here?"

"She was. She told me—something. I was asking her what to do about you, 'cause, Rodney, you can't just put your life on hold for six weeks—"

"He's babbling," Rodney said. "I don't think I've ever seen him use that many words at once."

"Well, if he babbles about needing anything, give me a yell," Davis said as he walked away.

John waved a hand, then stared at it, fascinated. The hair on his wrist looked funny. Like patterns. He'd never noticed that before.

"Ground Control to John. Come in, Major John."

" _Was_ a Major. Not anymore."

Rodney's voice went soft. "I know."

"Used to fly. Flew anything I could get my hands on—Black Hawks, Pave Hawks, Apaches, Cobras, and the jets: F-15s—boy those are sweet—F-16s; even got to take a Raptor up once. Thought I was gonna come in my flight suit."

"Oookay. We're very talky, aren't we?"

"Never wanted to do anything but fly," John said. He had this weird sensation that Rodney was sitting in his head, like he was listening directly from inside John's brain. "But I made a deal. And you know what they say—break a deal, face the wheel."

"I categorically refuse to call you 'Raggedy Man.' Although I suppose it fits, with your hair looking like that."

"Don't make fun of my hair. 'Smy _hair_."

Rodney sat back down in the chair next to his bed and did the thing with his fingers again, scratching the tips against John's scalp. "I would never," he said.

"Good," John said firmly. "Anyway, it wasn't really a deal until afterward, but even if I'd known—even if I knew ahead of time—I still would've gone back for ol' Holland. You don't leave a man behind. Hey, Rodney—" John craned his head around, which unfortunately made Rodney's fingers slip away, but that way he could see Rodney's face, those sharp cheekbones and blue-blue eyes.

"What?" Rodney leaned over and rested his chin on the railing.

"Did I ever tell you about my buddy Steve Holland?"

Rodney's voice sounded odd for some reason. "I don't think you did, no?"

"Best damned pilot I ever saw. Could make a chopper dance, you know that? Big, eleven-ton hunk of metal, dancing in the air. Flew with him to Mozambique once carrying a hundred and sixty tons of disaster relief in the hold, and the two of us singing Cash tunes all the way." John's eyes itched, and he tried to rub at them, but his I.V. got fouled in his blanket.

"Stop that. Let me," Rodney said, disentangling him.

"Thanks, Rodney. Thanks."

"Yes, you said that already."

"I did?"

"About twenty times when you were waking up. Seriously, Sheppard, if this is you on pain-killers, I fear for all our lives over the next couple of weeks."

"Sorry." John bit his lip and pushed his head back against the pillow.

"No, don't, I—your irony-meter is completely on the fritz, isn't it? Never mind. You were telling me about your friend Holland..."

John frowned. "Did I ever tell you about the crash?"

"Yes, of course. Jeep, wasn't it?"

"Funniest thing. Holland's chopper went down, so I went after him, only I crashed _my_ bird—well, they got in a lucky shot, is all, shredded my rotor. So there I am, hunting Holland down in the desert, and I find him hunkered up against a crashed _Soviet_ bird. Crazy, huh? Who knows how many tons of metal are lying out in the desert. It's like a freaking Bermuda Triangle out there."

"A sandy one, yes."

John blinked hard and saw Rodney smiling at him, a pretty loopy smile, if John had to say so. But then John realized he was smiling pretty silly right back.

"So, I hauled him up—his leg was hurt pretty bad—and we high-tailed it out of there, except we got turned around somehow and ran right into the arms of the Taliban."

Rodney wasn't smiling anymore.

"Hey, never mind. It's no big deal. I just was telling you, because—" There was a reason he'd started this, wasn't there? "Because—oh, right. Because we were that tight, me and Holland, but you...you're—well, heck, Rodney."

John scratched an itch right where his bandage was taped down. "After I managed to crash the jeep, Holland was released from the hospital and got kicked Stateside. Not his fault, but I was on my own. And I was pretty, you know, upset, because I knew I wouldn't fly again." John shook his head. "Never again, but then Doc Haloran loaned me his laptop and there _you_ were. Doubledoc." John felt a pleased rush that he'd managed to remember the whole point of the story. "See, and here you are again." John smiled and rested his head back. "You're right here."

"I am." Rodney's hand squeezed his for a long moment, then he cleared his throat and said gruffly, "Except I'm going to have to get some coffee. Horrible, awful, terrible hospital coffee. Can I get you anything?"

"Naw. Just, you know, come back afterward."

"I'm not going anyplace."

"Good. That's good." John closed his eyes. "Thanks, Rodney."

:::

Rodney was acting a little funny when John woke up again. He kept looking up from his computer and then looking down again, talking _to_ John, but _at_ his laptop screen.

John's hip didn't feel like a bowling ball anymore—more like a side of hot mashed potatoes being stabbed with a fork. And his back was killing him, too, but every time he tried to shift, he woke up the fork brigade.

"...but the Director, Dr. Weir, told Mr. Smartypants Educational Analyst to go shove his report—well, in so many words, of course—and instead she's going with my proposal for the focus of the new exhibit. And they'll be including the Möbius! So, you see—your boyfriend is brilliant."

"I knew that," John said. The strain must've showed in his voice, because Rodney's head lifted, chin going on point.

"Give me a number."

"Oh, come _on_."

"John. Don't be a jerk or I'll sic Teyla on you."

"Anything but that. Yeah. Uh, five?"

"Honestly." Rodney leaned over and pressed the call button sitting next to John's hand.

"Don't give me as much, okay?" John said when Davis walked in. "That stuff makes me foggy as hell."

"I'll say," Rodney said under his breath. John resisted the urge to whack him one. Really, John was resisting any urge to move at all at this point.

"I can ask the doctor to give you something else if you want, but I'm pretty sure he'll tell you—"

"—to teach your grandmother to suck eggs."

John blinked, and Ronon grinned as he stepped past the curtain.

"Is that what they taught you for a bedside manner?" Rodney asked. "Because, seriously, I think I'd do all right in medical school at that rate."

"Hey, Doc. Ignore Rodney, here. It's way past his bedtime."

"Oh, please."

"Past mine, too," Ronon said. "And long past visiting hours."

Rodney sighed and started packing up his stuff. He'd spread out over the last couple of hours, pushing down the railing so he could use John's bed as a desk. He started piling things into his bag and zipping up while Ronon came around the other side.

"How're you feeling?" Ronon had grabbed John's chart and was paging through it.

"He reports a five," Rodney said, "but, military guy, so, you know, adjust for sanity."

Ronon smirked. "John?"

"Yeah. It's...you know. Feels like forks."

"Forks."

"Hot forks. Really hot and pointy."

Ronon frowned and looked at John's chart again. "No temperature. You feel hot in this area?"

"No. Not like that—I know what infection feels like. Just hurts."

"Don't want it to hurt." Ronon wrote something in John's chart and then waved Davis over to look at it, then sent him away. "So, I'd like to go over what I found," Ronon said. "Okay if McKay sticks around?"

John hesitated for a split second. "Sure."

"The surgery went well. Teyla tell you?"

"Oh. Yeah. I think?" John had a very slim memory of Teyla saying things were good.

"I repaired your labrum, also shaved down a bone-spur that was developing thanks to the adhesions, which I cleaned up while I was in there. I had to sew up a little cartilage damage, so I made a longer incision over here." Ronon tapped the outside of John's hip. "Still, I'd like to start you on physical therapy as soon as possible. Say in a week."

"A week!" Rodney squeaked. John gave him a quick glare.

Ronon nodded. "Gotta keep the joint mobile. But no putting any weight on it until I give the go-ahead. You don't wanna mess up all my hard work."

"Got it, Doc. I'll be good."

"You'd better..."

"I know, I know—or you'll sic Teyla on me."

"Naw." Ronon brushed his arm with a big fist. "I'll sic Sandi on you."

John pretended to shiver, and Ronon barked out a laugh.

"We'll let you loose tomorrow. See you then."

"Okay. Thanks, Doc."

After Ronon left, Davis came back in with another hypo. So, John was barely conscious when, a couple of minutes later, Rodney leaned over and gave him a quick kiss goodbye.

"Don' forget my bike," John mumbled.

"I won't. I've got the key right here. Sleep well."

John thought he said something back, but he couldn't be sure.

:::

The hospital was an eerie place at night—all hospitals were, apparently, because John remembered this same feeling waking up in Landstuhl. Just the noises of machines and the feeling that he was surrounded by unconscious people. Not the same as in a barracks, either, because occasionally there would be noise and frantic movement and he knew somewhere, someone was fighting for their life.

Actually, not that different from the barracks.

He remembered being this bored, too. His hip throbbed, but not painfully enough to push the call button. And he liked being able to think again. He tried to reconstruct his memories over the last day, but they were choppy and erratic. At some point in the OR he'd almost woken up; he remembered that. Also, he thought he could remember them pulling a tube out of his throat—the memory was a little startling, appearing out of nowhere, just a vivid fragment.

His throat was sore, now that he thought about it. But he'd assumed that was because he'd been blabbering. He always reacted that way to anesthesia; he hoped he hadn't said anything stupid, because he could hardly remember any of it now. Except Rodney had been there, and that was nice.

When this was all over, he had to do something for Rodney. Something that would show the guy not just how grateful he was, but also how lucky he felt. It was like his life had gone from black and white to color overnight.

John woke up a couple more times, but before he knew it, it was morning, and the nurse—a different one, he was disappointed to see—was brushing back the privacy curtain and bringing him breakfast.

Well, sort of breakfast—disgusting reconstituted egg-things and toast. John poked the eggs around his plate and then hid them under a napkin while he munched on the toast.

"And how're you feeling?" the nurse asked. Her tag said Allison.

"Feeling fine."

Allison gave him a steady look and looked at John's chart. He eyed it, wondering if there were some secret code on it that meant, "Pester this one until he folds." Of course, having had drill instructors in his past gave him a little bit of an advantage, and he met her gaze with a bland look.

"Well, let me know if you need anything," she said, taking his tray. John settled back and tried to pull himself up on the bed a little. He kept sagging toward the middle and it was killing his back. He couldn't wait to go home and stretch out on his overstuffed couch, the one with the dip that fit his hip perfectly.

Except he wasn't going home. He'd forgotten about that. Now he kind of wished he'd fought Rodney a little harder on that point, because John couldn't figure how it was going to work. He'd either drive Rodney crazy, or Rodney would push him around the bend. Or maybe both. Because John was not a good patient—he knew that much about himself. He usually just wanted to crawl into a hole and be left alone. And Rodney was jittery, and constantly talking, waving his hands, typing crazily or eating, and sometimes all at once.

It made John tired even thinking about it.

:::

John had figured when it came time to be released, he'd ask a nurse to call him a cab and just get rolled out to the curb in a wheelchair.

Ronon set him straight on that when he stopped by, still in scrubs from another surgery. He lowered John's bed until it was flat, saying, "Teyla will be coming by as soon as I page her. Sandi's already on her way with her car." He lifted John's gown, embarrassing the bejeezus out of him, and started removing the dressing over John's hip.

"Looking good, buddy." He taped a fresh bandage on, his hands moving efficiently. "How's the pain?"

"It's doable. How long before I can get up?"

"How about right now?" Ronon pulled a pair of crutches from behind the privacy curtain. "Remember, don't put any weight at all on that leg. Not until I say it's okay. I'll be seeing you in a week."

"Sir, yessir," John mumbled, anxious to get up. He really, really had to pee, and he'd had it with bedpans.

"Hold on; let's deal with this first," Ronon said, tugging the tape off John's hand so he could remove the I.V.

"Doesn't a nurse usually do this stuff?" John said as Ronon taped a little gauze over the hole.

Ronon gave him a hard stare. "What did I tell you when we talked about this?"

"I'm in the hot-seat. Right." John started to swing his good leg toward the side of the bed, and then froze with a gasp.

"Let me help." Ronon lifted both his legs while John pushed with his arms, and together they got him sitting on the side of the bed. The pain was pretty bad. John wasn't so sure anymore about the getting up part.

"I want you to get started on some oral painkillers," Ronon said. "Take them on the schedule I give you, whether or not you think you need it."

"Okay." John would agree to anything at this point. He put his good foot down on the floor and Ronon gave him a hand as he pushed off the bed. All the blood went rushing from John's head and seemed to go right to his hip, where it throbbed in time with his pulse, and the weight of his leg was trying to drag it out of the socket.

Handing him the crutches, Ronon said, "You know how to use these things?"

"Oh, yeah," John said ruefully, tucking one under his arm. It was way too short.

"Hang on, let me adjust it." Ronon fiddled with them until they were both the right height, then handed them back.

John's good leg was getting tired at that point, so he put them under his arms and rested his weight on his hands. "Perfect. Thanks. I'm gonna—" he tilted his head at the bathroom.

"Think you can handle it?" Ronon was smirking at him.

John's hands were too busy to flip him the bird. It was tempting, though.

The first swing forward made him feel all the weight of his bad leg pulling from his hip. Not fun. He was really going to have to take it easy for a couple of days. Fortunately, being on crutches was like riding a bike, and he felt pretty confident as he crutched into the bathroom, turned on his good leg, and pulled the door closed behind him.

He yanked up his gown and took the longest piss in history, then shifted to the side to wash his hands at the sink.

When he came out again, Teyla was there, smiling at him. John froze awkwardly, way too conscious of the way his gown was hanging open at the back.

"Hello, John. I see you are up on your feet."

"Yeah, uh, hi, Teyla."

"I have your clothing and belongings, and Ronon tells me you are ready to check out."

"Yup. He just has to sign the paperwork," Ronon said.

"Can I—" John pointed at the bag of clothing with one crutch.

"Of course. I'll be waiting outside. Ronon?" Teyla inclined her head, and Ronon followed her like a puppy.

John wondered idly how long those two had known each other as he crutched back to his bed.

As long as he was up, he decided wasn't going to risk sitting down again. He just untied his robe and pulled his shirt on, then leaned on the bed long enough to get his good foot into one leg of his sweatpants and start pulling them up.

That's when he realized he was totally stuck. He couldn't lift his bad foot high enough to get them into the other leg of his pants. But if he dropped them on the floor and tried to get both feet in first, he wouldn't be able to bend down low enough to pull them up again.

He was arduously trying to hook the pants down low enough to slip his bad foot in when the curtain swung open again.

"Oops." Sandi froze and clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Jesus! Sandi—" John would have preferred it if she'd covered her eyes instead, considering he was leaning against the bed with his dick hanging out under his T-shirt.

"I've got two older brothers, boss," Sandi said, looking him straight in the eye. "So, get over it. I'm here to help."

John nodded warily and waited while she bent down and lifted his bad foot into his pants, then pulled them up his legs. John hastily took over as soon as they were high enough for him to reach.

"Thanks. I've got it from here." He knotted the tie and slipped the crutches back under his arms. "What're you doing here, anyway?"

"Oh, they didn't tell you? Teyla and I are taking you to Rodney's place. We're gonna get you settled in. He gave me a spare key." Sandi looked weirdly excited at the prospect.

"I was about to call a cab," John said stupidly, a little mystified.

"Yeah, well, that's because you're a big dummy. Honestly, John, did you think we were going to let you go through this on your own?"

"But who's minding the café?" John swallowed. "Tell me you didn't leave _McKay_ to handle the register." Visions of angry hordes of customers boycotting the place suddenly flitted through John's mind.

"Would I do that to our wonderful customers? Ahs showed up early to cover for me. Now, c'mon, boss. Teyla is waiting with your wheelchair." Sandi leaned around the curtain. "We're ready!" she hollered.

"Finally," Teyla said, pushing aside the curtain. "You do remember I'm your doctor, John? I believe I've seen all there is to see."

"Jeez, Teyla." John had barely formed a protest before Ronon came back in with some paperwork for him to sign, a bunch of Xeroxed sheets with instructions, and some medication for him to take right away.

He handed John a cup of water to swallow them down, then gave him a clap on the shoulder and said, "See you in a week."

"Thanks, Doc," John said to Ronon's broad back as he left.

"Now, John. We're going to stop on the way and pick up your prescriptions and any groceries you might think you need." Teyla pursed her lips. "I do not believe I trust Rodney to have the makings of any fully balanced meals."

"Well, it's not like either of us would know what to do with any fixings," John said, trying to lower himself as slowly as he could into the chair.

"I'll take these," Sandi said, grabbing his crutches.

Teyla pushed him from the room, Sandi following behind and babbling something about a tofu vegetable stew she could whip up.

"You can just stick the leftovers in the fridge. I'll make lots and you can just reheat it."

"Sounds good," John said vaguely, thinking it was more likely he'd call Rodney and beg him to bring some burgers home when he finished closing up.

If that didn't work, there were always the Cheetos stuck in the back of the couch.

:::

"Really, I'm great," John said, pretty much at the end of his rope. Teyla and Sandi had rushed around clearing the floor and stacking stuff out of the way so John could maneuver himself to the couch. Then they'd brought pillows, and a blanket, and Sandi had insisted on propping John's leg up, which led to an excruciating moment when something seemed to catch in his hip and he had to hold his breath against the pain.

Afterward, he'd slumped back and let them do whatever they wanted, which seemed to involve beheading small monkeys in the kitchen.

Punk came sniffing by and seemed surprised to see John. She stared at him with her good eye for a second, and then offered her butt. John gave her back a scratch right at the base of her tail, and she turned and nipped at his hand. So, they were good.

John was drowsing, Punk curled up on his chest, when Teyla came back in and stroked the back of his hand.

"Hmm?"

"I have patients to see this afternoon, John. Will you be all right here?"

"Yeah. I'm great. You go on."

"I've put your prescriptions on the coffee table, along with the schedule Ronon wrote up for you. You will take them as ordered," she said sternly.

"Okay," John said. "Thanks for everything, Teyla."

"You're welcome. Call me, please, if you need anything."

"Will do," John said, knowing he wouldn't.

She bent and pressed her forehead against his for a startling moment. It was over before John realized what she was doing, and then she was saying goodbye to Sandi and leaving, the scent of her perfume lingering behind.

"Sandi," John said, then cleared the roughness from his throat before continuing, "I'm good. You don't have to stick around."

But she waggled a finger at him. "Don't start. I'm here until the next shift, so get used to it."

"I'm just going to sleep," John protested.

"So? You'll sleep while I borrow Rodney's PlayStation and finally get to finish Red Steel. Ronon keeps stealing my controller," she said conspiratorially.

"Ronon likes Red Steel?"

Sandi nodded. "He's crazy for it. Says it's all about the knife-play."

"I wish I didn't know that," John groused, imagining his surgeon hunched over a controller and carving John's hip into hot little pieces. At least, that's what it felt like he'd done, and John pushed at the pillow under his legs to fluff it higher.

He fell asleep to the sound of Sandi squealing when she finally delivered the coup de grâce to Dozan.

:::

  
  



:::

Something soft was brushing against John's neck, and he jerked awake, then muttered a curse when he saw it was just Punk's tail. She was wedged into the gap between John and the edge of the couch, avidly watching Ada, who was sleeping in the sunlight, paws in the air.

Punk's tail twitched again, and John caught her just as she was about to pounce.

"Be nice to the other kitty," John said, voice rough with sleep and pain meds. "We're only guests here."

"You're awake finally!" Rodney strode in and then planted his fists on his hips. Thanks to the satiny pajama bottoms he was wearing, he looked a little bit like a swashbuckler, or maybe a harem boy.

John turned his snicker into a yawn. "Hey, McKay."

"Hay is for horses."

"Hi, then. Hi, Rodney."

"Hi," Rodney said, his voice soft and a little worried. "You slept a lot."

"Yeah, all this lying around has really taken it out of me."

"No, it's good. You should try to sleep your way through the worst part." Rodney came over and then hovered as if he were afraid to sit down.

John pushed Punk off the sofa and patted the cushion. "Come siddown."

"I don't want to jostle you."

Grabbing Rodney's wrist, John gave it a tug. "I like it when you jostle me."

"Please," Rodney huffed. "Don't try that sexy voice on me."

"Not workin'?"

"Yes, it is, in fact, which is problematic, seeing as you are presently not in any condition to follow up on the implied offer."

"My offer?"

"Your jostling offer, yes. No jostling." But Rodney was a liar, because a second later he was leaning over John and kissing him. John squeezed the closest part he could reach—turned out to be the soft bit just above Rodney's hip, and Rodney immediately blew a laugh into John's mouth.

"Stop! Ticklish!" Rodney said when John started to squeeze again. "I mean it, Sheppard."

"You're no fun."

"You don't need fun. You need your head examined. What if I were to accidentally—I don't know—bend you somehow?"

"It's all fun and games until you tear my stitches." John nodded seriously.

"Don't even kid about that." Rodney leaned closer and ran his fingers through the hair just above John's ear. "You really doing okay?"

"Fine and dandy. Hey, did you know Ronon plays Red Steel? We should have him over for a competition."

"A tourney, you mean."

"Yeah, Rodney, because we're Renaissance geeks." John rolled his eyes. "How did the roasting go today?"

"Oh." Rodney sniffed. "Well, of course, most of your equipment is purely substandard—"

"Hey, now—"

"Don't get your shorts in a bunch. You've done very well for what you have. And the DeLorean is a very nice machine."

"She is sweet, isn't she? So, how did it go?"

"Zeke said my light roast was perfect," Rodney said, grinning smugly. "He said it was 'just light enough not to mask the delicate single-origin quality.'"

"Oh, God. Zeke loves to make like a coffee reviewer."

"I definitely inspired him."

"I bet. Anyway, good going. I guess you handled the occasional customer all right?"

"Hmm? No. It was the strangest thing—I don't think I got to serve a single customer. Every time I turned around, Ahsarvat was already appearing out of nowhere to man the counter."

"How strange," John said, completely straight.

"Yes. Well, there's always tomorrow."

Somehow, John doubted it. "Gotta take a leak," he said, changing the subject. "Get my crutches and help me up?"

"Yes. Yes, all right," Rodney said, sounding nervous.

Rodney made it lot more complicated than it should have been, tugging him up not quite hard enough and then overcompensating, but finally he got John on one foot and situated with the crutches under his arms.

"Whoa," John said, suddenly dizzy with a head rush.

"Are you good? Are you okay? Don't—don't fall," Rodney said, hovering around John like a bumblebee on steroids, hands waving as if they could shape the air around him into a cushion. John hid a smile as he thunked over to the bathroom and left Rodney muttering at the door.

"You okay in there?" Rodney said after John had whizzed and stood for a little too long staring at the shiny-looking bar angling up the wall. It was obviously a new addition, out of place against the quaint green and black tile pattern.

"You put in a handicap bar," John said.

"Oh, yes, well—" Rodney's embarrassment was clear even through the solid door. "—since you'll be here, for a while, I hope—"

"It's good. It's great," John said, a little breathless with something that knotted his chest. He took a deep breath, and caught a whiff of himself. He stank of hospital and of the anesthesia sweating itself from his pores. Crutching over to the big shower, he opened the door and peeked inside. Sure enough, there was a bar set there as well, and a new-looking showerhead attachment, and on top of that a waterproof seat thing, the kind of orthopedic aid all too familiar to John after his long stay at LRMC.

"I'm going to take a shower," John said, trying to sound normal.

"Alone?" Rodney's voice squeaked a little, then returned, lower. "I can help you, you know. I'm here to help."

"I'm good." John replied, a little more abruptly than he'd meant to, but this was too much. He wasn't sure—he hadn't known. Rodney had installed freaking _hardware_ in his bathroom. This was serious.

Which was good, because John _wanted_ serious. He wanted to be a permanent fixture, but this made it about his disability. He tended not to think of himself as disabled, but he was, damn it, and looking at what Rodney had done for him pinched at his pride.

The silence stretched too long. John knew Rodney hadn't left, was still hovering—could practically hear the creak of old hardwood beneath Rodney's feet just outside the door.

"But you could come in and, I dunno, show me how stuff works," John forced out. "If you want."

The door opened immediately and Rodney peered in, his face pink—John wasn't sure with what.

"If you don't mind," Rodney said. "Because really, for safety's sake—actually, we should probably establish some sort of protocol to get us through this period of, um. Uncertainty?"

"Protocol. Yeah, sure."

"As in—no showering without me. Just in case."

"Jesus, McKay. I'm not a baby."

"Yes, you are." Rodney folded his arms. "You're a big, hairy baby if you think it matters to me that you need a little, you know—" Rodney jabbed his pointer finger at John's crutches, "—help. Just for now."

John cringed inwardly that he'd been that transparent, but this was Rodney, so of course he knew exactly why, right now, John felt both embarrassingly grateful and extremely pissed off.

Because, really, he had no fucking choice.

"Okay," John said.

"Really? I mean, great. Excellent. So, let's get started."

Rodney helped him get his clothes off, but it was awkward and awful having to lean, having to move where Rodney directed him. At one point, Rodney got on his knees, and not for a fun reason, but to help John get his sweats off his feet while he clutched the long bar.

"Can't get my stitches wet," John muttered.

"I know, I read the sheet. We'll just turn the seat this way." Rodney spun the little shower chair around and then helped John down into it before grabbing John's clothes and leaving to undress himself.

It was something of a reward to see Rodney when he returned, completely naked, all pale skin warming under the steam. Rodney soaped John's back and then handed him the washcloth so John could take care of his front. After a while the embarrassment faded, and John could finally look up into Rodney's eyes and see there was nothing but kindness there, and a compassion John hadn't been expecting. Not that he hadn't known Rodney was a good guy with kind of a huge heart, but this seemed above and beyond.

"Beautiful," Rodney murmured while he stroked John's shoulders with broad, soapy hands. John turned his head and saw Rodney's warm, crooked smile, and relaxed a little, leaned back into Rodney's touch. "Tilt your head back and I'll wash your hair."

And, oh, this was bliss, the sensation of Rodney's fingers scrubbing against his scalp counteracting the sharp ache in John's hip. Then Rodney used the attachment to rinse his hair, and John felt like humming under Rodney's deft touch.

When John was as clean as he was going to get without wetting his dressing, Rodney toweled him off, rubbing over his head in a way John knew would make his hair even more ridiculous than usual when it dried.

He was exhausted, though, by the time they'd dried off and he'd been dressed in fresh sweats and a T-shirt, and he settled down onto the couch with a weary sigh. He barely had the energy to lift his legs up.

"It's time for your medication," Rodney said, standing in front of him dressed only in his boxers, his skin pink from the warm water. John wanted to lean over and lick the trail of dampness over Rodney's pecs, wanted to pull down his boxers and bury his nose in Rodney's groin.

John wanted a lot of things, but it would be a while before he got them, before he got his life back. The thought was too fucking depressing, and it all caught up to him—the road ahead, filled with crutches and physical therapy and no _sex_ , not to mention having other people take care of him. He'd charged into this knowing it had to be done, sort of knowing what it would be like but not really, and now it was smack in his face and it just made him so damned tired.

"Yeah, okay," John said, and closed his eyes.

:::

"John? Wake up."

John's eyes opened and he blinked blearily, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Punk was plastered against his side again and she'd drooled a little into his shirt; he could feel the wet spot.

"You need to take these," Rodney said, nudged his hand with a fist, and then dropped some pills into John's palm.

"Thanks," John said, voice gone rusty, and raised himself long enough to down the meds with the glass of water Rodney offered him.

Rodney frowned. "Maybe you should try to stay awake for a little while; otherwise, you'll be up all night. Hey, I know—" he snapped his fingers, "—how about a nice game of chess?"

John narrowed his eyes. "First of all, WarGames. That was a gimme. Second, I know what you're up to."

"Oh. Hmm?"

"Yeah. Dope me up, then beat me at chess. Like that'll count."

Rodney drew himself up. "For your information, I hardly need some chemical-induced handicap to get the better of you. Besides," Rodney's shoulders hunched. "I—it's just weird, that's all, seeing you so, so—"

"So...?"

Rodney shrugged helpless. "You look...flat. Or your hair is, a little. I didn't realize that was even possible."

"It shouldn't be," John said, scrubbing at his head. "My mom used to try, you know. She'd pour on the gunk, comb it down, but it never made any difference."

"I'm sure you were a trial to her," Rodney said primly, but his eyes were warm. John looked away, suddenly embarrassed. He wanted to get up and move around, but of course he couldn't.

"This sucks. Really, really sucks," he muttered, wishing he could crawl into a hole.

"I know."

"I want to do things and I can't. And it's not even like that's a new thing, except now I can do even less."

"Just for a little while."

"I'm an asshole," John said, feeling sullen and stupid and like he could punch a wall. "Sorry to be a pain."

"Yes. Well," Rodney, cleared his throat, "You're not. At least, I imagine I would be ten times more insufferable. I don't like pain very much."

"And I'm a big fan," John said, deadpan.

"Apparently so, since it's taken you this long to get this fixed."

"Jesus, it wasn't like I had a lot of choice, Rodney." John rubbed his aching head. "At least, not until you showed."

"Oh! Really?" And, Christ, Rodney looked so damned pleased, like John was the one doing _him_ the favor.

"Yeah, really. Thanks, I mean." John shifted awkwardly. "Hey, what about that game of chess?"

"Right! Right. Wait until you see my chess set," Rodney said, spinning around once and then turning again to head toward the bookshelf next to the television. "Last time I saw it, it was over here."

They played a quick game, John losing miserably fast, and then ate some of Sandi's weird tofu stew before starting in on the second. But John's eyes stubbornly refused to stay open, and he let Rodney coax him up and onto his crutches to go into the bedroom. His hip felt heavy and hot, but the rest of him wasn't warm, so he figured he was okay on the infection front. Rodney helped him down and then propped his crutches against the wall beside the bed.

"What about you?" John said blearily, wanting Rodney next to him.

"I don't usually go to sleep this ridiculously early. And I do have an entire exhibit to design."

John wanted to apologize again for taking up so much of Rodney's time, but the last time he'd apologized Rodney had called him a chucklehead, so John just sighed and fell asleep.

He woke up at one point to feel Rodney shuffling into bed next to him. John murmured something in welcome, and Rodney said, "Shh, go back to sleep. You need rest."

John lifted one arm and rested it along Rodney's leg. Then he fell back asleep.

:::

The days passed painfully slowly. John started cutting back on the painkillers because they were making him nauseated. Rodney was gone most of the day, either at the roastery or in meetings about his new exhibit. John browsed the web for a little while, got pissed off, and shut down the computer. Instead, he killed time by playing _Left 4 Dead_ ; it seemed like the right game for him considering he felt like a zombie.

Christ, he wanted his life back.

On the third morning, just after Rodney left for Fair Trade, Doc Emmagan called. She wanted to stop by to make a house call.

"Yeah, okay. I'm fine, though, Doc."

_"Allow me to make my own determination, John."_

"I thought doctors didn't do this sort of thing anymore."

_"Think of it as a visit from a friend."_

John didn't know how to refuse without sounding like an asshole, so he mumbled his thanks and hung up, then went back to killing zombies. Ada and Punk seemed to have made a truce, because they were curled up together on the carpet in front of the TV, looking weirdly like a white and gray yin-yang symbol.

The doorbell rang about an hour later. Rodney had rigged a remote for the buzzer on his front door, so John used it to let Teyla in.

"Hello, John. How are you feeling?" She set down her bag and sat on the coffee table by the couch to look at him.

"I'm good." He waved at his crutches. "Staying off my feet like Ronon told me."

She didn't exactly pat him on the head and call him a good boy, but her nod was approving. "And the pain?"

"Not too bad. I think I'm going to cut down on that junk," John said listlessly.

Teyla frowned and leaned over him. "May I?" She said, raising her hands.

"Knock yourself out."

She tapped his chin up and lifted his eyelids, looking at his pupils or something. Then she said, "And you say the pain isn't bad?"

John shrugged.

"John, please answer me."

"What do you want me to say? That it feels like ground glass when I get up on the crutches? 'Cause it does. But right now I'm fine."

Teyla nodded, then bit her lip. She was wearing her hair up today, and it exposed the long lines of her neck. John had always thought she was pricelessly beautiful, so much so that he always felt a little embarrassed stripping down for her. But right now she was frowning kind of unattractively.

"If you aren't in pain at the moment, then tell me what is wrong."

John looked down at his legs, at his bad hip propped up by the firm pillow Rodney had picked out for him. "It's going to be a while," John said slowly. "I get that. It's just—" he stopped and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like a whiny kid.

"You know you can talk to me, John," Teyla said. "I will keep anything you tell me in strictest confidence." She put her hand on his good knee and jogged it a little.

"I went on the web," John confessed. "I was reading up on what other people have been through who had the same surgery." He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Doesn't sound very promising."

"Ronon told me your repair was a success, and he is the best surgeon I know," Teyla said. She tapped his knee to make him look up, then arched one eyebrow at him. "Did any of these other people have Ronon?"

"No. But that doesn't mean jack if—" John gritted his teeth. "It was bad enough being a cripple, you know? But at least I could pretend—hell, I _was_ self-sufficient. Now I can't even carry a glass of water." He waved at the pitcher Rodney had set on the coffee table. "And some of these people said they ended up worse than before the surgery. God—" John let his head fall back and stared at the stain on the ceiling. He'd decided yesterday it looked like a dog howling at the moon.

"It's been three days since the procedure," Teyla said firmly. "It's perfectly natural to feel a little down, but I promise you, John, we won't give up until you are walking normally. Ronon won't be satisfied with any less.

John's eyes burned a little, and he closed them, drawing in a deep breath. "Why?" he said roughly. "I mean, you, and Ronon, and Sandi and, Christ, Rodney—you guys are doing so much..."

"Why shouldn't we care for you, John?"

"You? You're my _doctor_ , Teyla. Doctors don't do house calls anymore. Didn't you get that memo? And Rodney—he's working for free. He's doing my job every day, and his own, too. He gets home and just falls right into bed, he's so wiped. And it's not like I can be, you know—" John felt himself flush, "—any use to him there, seeing as I'm laid up like this." John ran out of steam about the same moment he realized he was babbling—about his sex life, no less. "Sorry. Never mind I said that."

Teyla was silent for a long time, and John was pretty sure he'd gone way too far on the sharing front, but when she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost sad. "Did you ever wonder how you came to be my patient, John?"

"Something to do with Hal, I thought. Big meddler, that guy." But John said it with a smile. Mighty Hal, they always called him on the medevac teams. Sixty years old, at least, but he was in great shape, tall and beefy with big, steady hands. All the pilots knew if they could just get their wounded to Hal's triage tent alive they stood a hell of a good chance of surviving.

"Hal helped my father when he was dying," Teyla said quietly. John jerked his head up to look at her, but Teyla's face was turned to the side, with just the curve of her cheek showing. "It was in Tanzania, at the big hospital in Mwanza. You have to understand, John—doctors are like gods in my home country. There are so very few of them, and they are so needed. But even though my father was dying, with no hope for recovery, Hal stopped by to see him many times to offer him comfort and to keep him with us as long as he could. To talk to us about what was happening, preparing us—"

John reached down and awkwardly patted Teyla's hand, still on his knee.

She smiled ruefully. "I was only ten years old, but I never forgot Doctor Hal. We moved to the United States soon afterward, and my senior year in college I contacted him and asked for a letter of recommendation for medical school. I thought he couldn't possibly remember me, but he did." Teyla shrugged. "After I completed my residency, I joined him in Doctors Without Borders. That's where I met Ronon. Eventually I ended up here at the V.A., of course, but for many years my practice was all over—fighting epidemics in Sudan, and for over a year doing relief in Afghanistan, before MSF withdrew all personnel in 2004." She gave him an intent look.

"Oh. _Oh._ "

"Yes, we evacuated right after the murders near Khairkhana, where five of my colleagues were killed."

John felt heat at the base of his throat.

"No justice was offered to us, but rumor had it that a small group of U.S. operatives conducted a raid on the Taliban camp that claimed responsibility. At least two of those operatives were wounded in the raid." She looked at him straight on and smiled too gently. "I believe you earned a purple heart?"

"Teyla..."

"John. Do you understand now?"

"Yeah, I get it." It was weird, how his life was twisting back on itself. First, the thing with Ronon and Hal, and now Teyla and that raid—that pretty much useless raid that probably didn't get the people originally responsible. You could never get the people who were _really_ responsible. That was maybe the one true lesson John had brought home from the war.

"We don't even know for sure that we got them. We only captured the ones who were taking credit for the murders. Later, they told us it was probably someone else."

"And that matters somehow?"

"All I'm saying is, you don't owe me anything," John said stubbornly.

"I don't think of it as owing. I think of it as honoring the memory of my friends in the best way I know how. That is why, when Hal told me you would be coming to our city, I asked that he pull some strings so your case would be assigned to me."

"Oh. How come you never told me any of this?"

Teyla shrugged. "I didn't see the need. Until now—John, you mustn't lose your will to recover."

Suddenly pissed off, John pushed up onto his elbows. "Who said I was?"

"I can see you are feeling defeated. But you must remember you are feeling the depressive effects of the medication, as well as post-operative stress. Those will pass. And in just a few days you will begin physical therapy."

John relaxed. "Yeah, I know. How soon again?"

"As early as next Monday. Which is why," she said, suddenly sharp, "you need to eat. And rest. And take these on the schedule you were given." She plucked up the bottle of painkillers and pointed them at John.

"They make me nauseated," he said, maybe a little sullenly. "How'm I supposed to eat when I feel like throwing up?"

"You should have told me. We'll try something with a different base." Teyla reached into her bag and pulled out a small pad. For prescriptions, John realized.

"You really are doing a house call. This makes it official. They'll probably boot you out of the AMA."

"I'd like to see them try," she said archly, and scribbled something down before tearing off the top sheet. "I will drop this with Sandi so she can fill it for you."

"Thanks," John said, trying to make it sincere, even though she'd just reminded him how much extra work he was making for his friends.

"It's no trouble, John." Then she bent down and brushed her forehead against his; he remembered her doing that when they first delivered him home. John leaned into it, murmuring his thanks again in a low voice, and then Teyla swung up to her feet with a grace John would never stop envying, and let herself out.

Deciding to take at least part of her advice, John settled down for yet another nap.

:::

After waking, he made himself get out of bed and clean up with a warm, damp washcloth, then went to the kitchen and got a bowl of cereal. Rodney had left out no less than five kinds, so John ended up mixing some Cheerios and Rice Krispies together, then throwing in a handful of Lucky Charms to make it interesting.

The forced inactivity was starting to really get to him—his body wanted to _move_. He'd tried to explain it to Rodney, how this itch got under his skin, but Rodney had just given him a blank look and suggested he go kill some more zombies.

Just as he was finishing up his breakfast, there was a knock at the door and then the sound of a key going into the lock. Sandi peeked her pink head inside and said, "Oh, thank God. I was worried you'd be naked again. No offense."

"None taken," John said dryly, and she grinned unrepentantly and waved a paper bag at him.

"Now, now. No being cranky; not when I brought you some good drugs."

"They're not good. They make me foggy."

She raised her eyebrows. "Foggy is the new shiny."

"I don't even know what that means."

"It means chill, boss." Sandi dropped the day's paper on the coffee table and opened the bag to pull out his prescription. "Be good and take two of these, and you'll get your surprise."

"I like surprises." John held out his hand for the pills and swallowed them down with the last of the water. "Thanks. Could you refill the pitcher?"

"Of course. I live to serve." Sandi scooped up the pitcher, John's cereal bowl and spoon, and some trash from the coffee table and took them into the kitchen. He heard her bustling around in there, and then the low hum of his coffee mill, and he smiled. Soon the smell of freshly ground coffee drifted over to him. Smelled like a good roast.

"Which blend is that?" he said, trying to turn enough to see into Rodney's kitchen. He caught a wave of Sandi's hand, but her response was muffled and she didn't come back out.

John sighed and snatched up the paper she'd brought for him. He went immediately to the Calendar section and started reading Jon Carroll's column. It was one of the ones about his cats, which always made John grin. He'd just finished when Sandi appeared carrying a coffee mug like it was a holy chalice or something.

"So, you gonna to tell me which blend this is?"

"Nope. That's the surprise part."

John grunted and took a sip. Nice, almost-burnt flavor, right on the edge where the sugars had caramelized just right. He detected the rich buzz of Moloka'i along with...the Nicaraguan Catuai Rojo, tasted like. "God, that's good," he mumbled, and took a deeper drink, letting it fill his mouth. "Tell Zeke this is outstanding. If we manage to get more Moloka'i, I bet this will sell like hotcakes."

"It's not Zeke's," Sandi said, clapping her hands together. "Rodney made it, start to finish."

"Rodney?"

Sandi nodded. "You should have seen him, boss. I think he measured it out down to the bean. This is the _second_ batch. The first was good, but this one's even better. People were going nuts for it."

"Wow. Cool." John took another sip and felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat from his cup. "So, sounds like he's doing okay."

"Oh, yeah. We're just keeping him away from the customers, is all." Sandi frowned thoughtfully. "And the delivery guys. And Chickee—you know, the lady who always parks her Volvo in the pimp spot right in front? She and Rodney are having a downright war."

"My money's on McKay," John said.

"I'm not surprised." Sandi's smile was warm. "He's your guy."

"Yeah." Embarrassed, John rubbed at his hair. It was still a little flat, and he poked at it, trying to get it to stand up.

"Can I get you anything else while I'm here? Something to eat other than Cheerios?"

"I'm good, thanks. How's Ahsarvat? Zeke? They getting along with Rodney?"

"They're fine, boss. Everything's fine. You don't have to worry, you know? The place'll still be standing when you get back."

"Unless McKay blows it up."

Sandi sat her hip on the arm of the couch and tilted her head. "You think that's likely?"

"Could be. He's tricky. I should really be down there." John felt another mood coming on but couldn't seem to help it.

"You will be. Just give it a little time. Oh, I wanted to tell you: the Doubledoc is selling like crazy. Zeke said he'd step up and do another roast. That was right before he freaked out because he thought he saw a mouse." Sandi grinned evilly. "He almost climbed on top of the roaster before Rodney went back there and dragged out Oly, Mr. Beckett's little rat-dog."

"Oh, God," John found himself laughing at the image of big Zeke trying to climb the DeLorean. "I hate that dog."

"Yeah. Ugly little thing, isn't he?"

Punk appeared at that moment to nudge against Sandi's leg. She took a look down and then burst out laughing.

"What? Punk is okay," John said defensively.

"She is," Sandi said. "It's just like she was agreeing with me about Oly." Sandi bent down and offered her hand to get slobbered on. "Is there anything else you need around here? Like maybe..." she reached into her messenger bag and came out with a sandwich. "Turkey?"

"Oh, awesome." John took the sandwich and unwrapped it enough to take a bite. "You make the best sandwiches," he said as soon as he'd swallowed.

"So I'm told. You should see Ronon put them away."

"What's that about, anyway? Guy uses a knife on me and you get cozy with him?"

"Ha, ha. Actually, I ran into him after we met at the café that time, remember? The next day I saw him at the Defenestration Installation."

"The what?"

"That building on Howard where they have all the sofas and stuff hanging out the windows? I was taking some photos and he was there checking the place out. Apparently he'd never seen it. And we got to talking and, well—he's a real good guy, you know?" Sandi said sincerely, her pink head bobbing.

"Yeah, I know it." John cleared his throat. "And if anyone deserves your sandwiches, it's him," he said, a little hoarsely, and Sandi looked up from her crouch next to Punk to beam at him sweetly. She was such a nice kid. "And if he's mean to you, just let me know," John added. "I may be a gimp, but I still have my Glock."

"Aw, boss. You say the sweetest things."

"Yeah, well. Get on out of here already. I'm sure you've got places to—"

"Hey, is that _Left 4 Dead_?"

Which was how they ended up as teammates in a grueling battle against the wickedly fast zombies coming at them from all sides, the two of them yelling, "Heal me!" and, "Hang on, let me grab this extra ammo," and once Sandi cried out, "Oooh, is that a bazooka?" which almost made John do a spit-take with his fresh cup of coffee.

As Sandi was packing up to go she looked down and then picked up the piece of graph paper Rodney had used to write down his schedule. Sandi said casually as she put it down, "Rodney is a pretty okay guy, huh, boss?"

John ducked his head. "Yeah. He really is."

"Kinda grew on you, didn't he?"

"Or maybe the other way around."

"I'm glad." She bent over and planted a kiss on John's head. "Glad you found someone to grow on," she said, then grinned at him when he squirmed a little. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Thanks, Sandi."

"No worries at all."

He heard her clatter through the second door and out onto the street, and he thought about his friends, and how goddamned lucky he was. And about Rodney, and how weird it was to find someone to grow on, and maybe grow old with.

John hadn't even realized he wanted that, until Rodney showed up and handed it to him.

:::

John was lying belly down in the middle of the bed when he heard Rodney come home finally, saying, "Hi, sorry, I know, I'm late. Where are you?"

"I'm in here," John yelled, and tried to roll over to get up, but—bad idea, his hip wasn't going for that at the moment. "Can't get up."

"Don't, then," Rodney said, his voice much closer. John turned his head and saw Rodney had already stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt, probably leaving his clothes on a trail from the front door, if previous experience was any indication.

"Hi," John said, waving weakly.

"Hi. Just gonna—" Rodney pointed at the bathroom and disappeared. John tucked his head back down and waited.

"Bad day?" he asked when Rodney came back in, his face all pink and scrubbed-looking, but his eyes tired.

"Looong. Oh, you have no idea how long. First Simpson dared to argue with my schematics for the surface tension exhibit, then we got news there's going to be a budget cut if we can't secure funding from one of our big supporters, so Weir sent me out on a little dog-and-pony thing, and I ask you—do I look like the kind of man a billionaire would want to lay a fat check on? But after schmoozing and eating all their tasty canapés, I snuck out and made it just in time for the swing shift, and—did Sandi bring you the coffee? She promised me she would."

"She did. It was..." John held out, enjoying Rodney's anxious look. "...fantastic, Rodney. Seriously. If we could get a reliable source of Moloka'I, I think it would be a best seller. A signature blend for us."

"Really? You're not just saying that?" Rodney drifted closer and sat on the edge of the bed beside John's hip.

"I mean it," John said gravely, adding, "I would never lie about coffee."

"No, you wouldn't. I know that about you."

John had to smile at Rodney's serious expression. "So, what're you gonna name it?"

"Name it? Oh! I get to name it, don't I?"

"Unless you name it something stupid, in which case I have veto rights. You can ask Zeke. God, once he tried to name one of his Kona blends 'Morning, Glory.'"

"God, that's just terrible. What was the man thinking?"

"No one has any idea."

They grinned at each other for a second, then Rodney said, trying to sound nonchalant, "What do you think of 'Blackhawk'?"

John felt his ears growing a little hot. "You don't have to do that. Name it something other people will get."

Rodney put his hand on the small of John's back, resting it there warmly. "Well, how about 'Contra Volcano,' because, you know, Nicaragua versus Hawaii—"

"Try again, genius."

"Um, oh! How about 'Rocket Science'? Because, really, you wouldn't believe the exacting heat measurements I used to—"

"Okay, I take it back—you don't get to name anything."

Rodney's face crumpled in a way John absolutely refused to find kind of adorable. He twisted a little to grab Rodney's hand and pull him down onto the bed.

"Sleep on it. You'll come up with something." But once he had Rodney lying next to him, all warm and smelling of coffee and musk, John couldn't help touching him, running his hand along Rodney's arm and up to ruffle his hair.

"Mmm," Rodney said, his eyes closed.

John lifted his upper body enough to shift closer so he could press his lips to Rodney's temple and nibble on the edge of Rodney's ear.

"Are you trying to start something?" Rodney said, obviously caught between sleepy and aroused.

"Yeah. Maybe?"

"Because I have it on good authority you're not allowed to do anything of that nature at the moment."

John pulled back. "You gonna to let a doctor dictate what we do and when?"

"Mmm." Rodney cracked open his eyes. "Possibly? Especially considering the doctor is at least six foot three and has the muscle mass of a body builder?"

"Wuss. Besides, there's nothing wrong with my hands," John said, running one of them down Rodney's back until he could palm his ass in demonstration.

"I'm a coward, I admit it. But the man has an ancient _knife_ collection; he _showed_ me," Rodney said, but his voice sounded weak, maybe because right then John was rubbing his fingers right behind Rodney's balls, smoothing the soft flannel of his boxers snug against them.

"Wanna make you feel good," John explained, mumbling it into Rodney's shoulder. He felt dangerously on the edge of something; he wasn't sure what.

Rodney turned his head and tugged John's chin up to kiss him, and it was wonderful, just what John had been aching for all day long without realizing it. He just wanted Rodney here, with him.

Pretty ridiculous, but John couldn't help moaning a little when Rodney slipped his tongue into his mouth.

"You drive me crazy," Rodney whispered, turning fully to press himself along John's side.

John took the opportunity to slip his hand under the band of Rodney's boxers and capture Rodney's hard-on in his fist.

"Could make you crazier," John offered, and Rodney's breath hitched. "Make you a _lot_ crazier."

It was a little bit of an empty threat, because John was trapped on his stomach with just one hand to work with, but he jerked Rodney slow, kissing him the whole time while he thumbed Rodney's foreskin back and forth, loving the sound of Rodney's little whimpers when it felt especially good and trying to repeat the motion over and over, until finally Rodney gasped against John's lips and came. John squeezed a little harder, feeling the pulse of come over his fingers, slick and warm, and he kept stroking, a burn growing in his wrist and forearm, until Rodney reached down and caught his hand.

"God, John."

"Yeah." John kissed him again, then nuzzled Rodney's warm cheek.

"Turn over," Rodney whispered. "Let me do you."

"Can't." John wiped his messy hand on his sweatpants.

"Can't?"

"Can't turn over. Can't come, anyway. Stupid meds."

"Oh, if that isn't—"

Rodney sounded steamed, and John opened his eyes. "What?"

"—just like you! Way to make me feel inadequate by putting me in a position where I can't do something nice in return." Rodney grabbed a tissue from the side table and started mopping himself up.

"Rodney." John gritted his teeth. "You do something 'nice' for me every minute of the freaking _day_. You've made your whole _life_ about being nice to me, so just shut up and enjoy the fucking afterglow! You've earned it!"

"Oh." Rodney ducked his head, and John reached out to tug him back down. Rodney settled with a disgruntled, "Well, I suppose you have something of a point."

"Thank you." John butted him in the shoulder. "Now turn off the light. You need sleep; you've been burning it at both ends."

"I am a little tired." Rodney snapped off the lamp and settled under the covers beside him.

"There you go."

"And, thank you," Rodney said grudgingly, "for the very nice orgasm."

"You're very welcome," John said, then waited another minute before adding fondly, "Idiot."

Fortunately, by then Rodney was already asleep.

:::

John woke up and saw, by the streetlight bleeding through the crack in the blinds, that it was still the middle of the night. But his hip was really hating him for lying on his stomach all night, and also he really needed to take a leak, so he tried to shift his way toward the edge of the bed.

"Hwah? Hmm?" Rodney mumbled, and his arm, which was lying over John's back, squeezed in as if to hold him there.

"Need to piss," John said. "Go back to sleep."

"Burm."

"Yeah, buddy. Burm." John made it to the edge and dropped his good leg over the side, then pushed up using the nightstand and the mattress. It was noisy and awkward, and it wasn't until John was upright that he realized he'd ditched his crutches on the other side of the bed, where they were still leaning against the wall next to Rodney's head.

 _Terrific_ John thought, and tried to hop, only to nearly trip over Punk, whose green eye was staring up at him curiously. John startled and knocked his bad leg against the bed, and the sound he made had Rodney jolting upright and saying loudly, "Your theory, sir, is crap."

"You're right about that," John said under his breath. "Sorry I woke you up. But can you hand me my crutches?"

"What? What're you—" Rodney rubbed his eyes and then leaned over and snapped on the light. "God," he said, looking over to shake a finger at John, "you'd better not be putting weight on that leg."

"I'm not!" John protested.

"Because Ronon told me he would do things to me if I let you. And not happy, sexy things."

John grinned. "He is kinda hot, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Rodney said wistfully, then shook himself. "Hey, no changing the subject."

"Just pass me my crutches, would you? I left them on the other side."

Rodney insisted on getting up and bringing them to John, tucking them under his arms with a kind of extreme care that made John's heart pinch a little.

"That's great, thanks." John took the opportunity to lean in and place a kiss on the corner of Rodney's mouth. "Now go back to sleep."

But when John crutched back in from the bathroom, teeth newly brushed since he hadn't managed before falling asleep, Rodney was still awake and waiting for him. He helped John into bed—on his back, this time, with a pillow under his bad leg—and promptly curled up next to him and put his head on John's shoulder.

"Bony," Rodney said, shifting his cheek back and forth as if looking for a more comfortable perch. "Seriously bony."

"So, let's try this," John said, pushing Rodney off him and turning his head to use Rodney's shoulder as a pillow instead.

"Hey," Rodney protested weakly.

"Much better," John said, nuzzling against Rodney's soft T-shirt.

"Did you take your pills?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Just making sure." Rodney's fingers drifted into John's hair. It felt good.

"Hate being foggy."

"Yes, but you're contrary that way. Most people enjoy being free of pain."

"Ruins my score in L4D."

"Your life is entirely too difficult."

John indicated his agreement by huffing against Rodney's chest and falling asleep.

:::

The phone rang, way too early, and John stuck his head under the pillow when Rodney answered and started talking.

"Zelenka, what a surprise." Rodney sounded as cold as winter frost. "They did what?" he practically yelled a moment later. Then there was a lot of growling, and even a tiny bit of screeching, and John pulled his head out to see Rodney pacing beside the bed, his hair sticking every which way and his face bright with fury.

"Well, it's not like they will be of any use to them without _me_ ," Rodney said bitingly. "And you, of course, although the primary concept was—yes, yes, I know you contributed too, before you backed away like an intellectual coward." Rodney's mouth snapped closed and then he said, with grudging respect, "Not that you weren't right, of course. No, I don't expect there to be any trouble. Really, without us to decode them, the notes are practically worthless in using to recreate—Radek, please, of course this is a secure line. What do you take me for?" Rodney paused then said, "Oh, that's _very_ nice. I suppose you'll insult my parentage next. Still, I must admit it's...somewhat nice to hear your voice. I hope you're doing all right down there. The weather isn't intolerable?"

John rolled onto his good side carefully and was just about to try to get up when Rodney wound down and said goodbye before hanging up the phone.

"What was that all about?" John said, his voice husky with sleep. "C'mere. You look pissed."

"An old colleague of mine." Rodney sat on the side of the bed next to John's hip, and John curled up to be a little closer.

"Sounded like bad news."

"Oh, it's terrible news, really, but with any luck it won't be the end of the world." Rodney laughed shakily and explained, "Someone on the inside hacked into a government server and stole the notes on my little experiment—you might remember the one?"

John nodded. "Big kaboom."

"Yes, close to. Anyway, the colleague I worked with on the project for a short while called to tell me. But really, I don't think the notes they pilfered so underhandedly will do them any good whatsoever. They would need me to decipher them, or Radek, and he's not likely to. Plus, he's living in Antarctica now, based in a science station there."

John frowned.

"The fallout for him was a little less than my complete professional suicide, since he withdrew from the project before the end. Still, he's in _Antarctica._ "

"Too cold down there." John dropped his head and let his cheek rest against Rodney's knee. "Glad you're up here. But it's too early to be up—"

"Oh, in fact, it's not," Rodney said. He gave John's shoulder a little pat before standing. "I have meetings, and then the refinement of my Very Special Blend. I'm thinking of calling it 'Brain Juice.'"

John suppressed a sharp comment, instead letting out a little sigh.

"Go back to sleep," Rodney said, his voice soft, his fingers even softer where they brushed the back of John's head.

John gave in.

:::

Rodney was already gone when John woke up again, his head aching a little from the drugs. There was a sticky note on the nightstand that read, _Don't forget to eat something. This bony shoulder situation cannot continue. —RM_

John sighed and got himself up. Doing his usual morning routine took three times as long on the crutches, but he scrambled up some eggs and was eating them from his favorite seat on the couch when the phone rang.

John had given out Rodney's number as a way to reach him, so he picked up and warily said, "Hello?"

 _"Rodney? Is that you?"_ A woman's voice came over the line.

"Nope." John scratched his jaw and contemplated adding, _This is Rodney's totally gay boyfriend._

_"I need to speak with Dr. Rodney McKay."_

"He's not here at present," John said pleasantly. "May I take a message?"

_"Look, I don't know who you are, but it's really urgent I speak to Rodney."_

"How come?" John asked lazily, getting a little ticked.

 _"Who is this?"_ The woman was sounding more suspicious by the second.

"That should be my line, don't you think?"

There was a moment of silence, then the woman said carefully, _"This is Colonel Samantha Carter, U.S. Air Force, and it's urgent that I speak to Dr. McKay as soon as possible, preferably over a secured line. Please give him this number..."_

John had already stiffened at the clipped, military tone of her request, and he had the pen in his hand and was jotting down the number across the top of his crossword before he realized what he was doing.

"Got it. I'll have him call you."

_"Please do. Thank you."_

There was a click, and John was left staring at the handset thinking, _What the fuck?_

:::

John tried to reach Rodney, but got his annoying voice mail—Rodney in full lounge-lizard voice saying smoothly, _"You have reached the mo-bile cellular device of Dr. Rodney McKay,"_ blah, blah, blah. John left a message, keeping it oblique because Col. Carter had sounded a little paranoid. John assumed it had something to do with the whole 'stealing of secret notes' thing, which gave John a queasy feeling of uncertainty.

When the phone rang about an hour later, John yanked it up, thinking it was Rodney, but it was Dr. Dex instead.

_"How're you doing?"_

"Getting on, getting on."

_"You taking your medication? How's the pain?"_

"It's doable."

_"Not putting weight on it?"_

"No. I'm being good."

 _"That'd be a change."_ Ronon laughed then said, _"I have the paperwork Teyla told me to get together. My post-op report, prognosis and stuff. For your compensation board?"_

"Huh?"

_"To up your comp benefits. Didn't Teyla talk to you about it?"_

"Nope. You mean you think they'll up my comp?"

_"Yeah. Teyla said you have to contact the V.A. and request a temporary hundred-percent rating, and then I have to send them my paperwork and tell them how long I think it'll be before you're back on your feet."_

"Jesus. I—it never even occurred to me."

_"Good thing Teyla's looking out for you."_

"Yeah. Wow. This is huge."

_"So...I've got the paperwork ready. Get in touch with your benefits office and tell me where to send it."_

"Will do. Thanks a lot, Doc."

_"Not a problem. See you Monday."_

John pulled out his PDA and got the number, then called his V.A. benefits office over in Oakland. He got the really nice lady on the other end to tell him where Ronon should send the information, talked to her a little bit about how to make the claim and what it all meant, and hung up the phone feeling a little dazed.

100% compensation for at least three months—Christ. The wad of cash he'd get once they'd filled the claim went a long way to ease his discomfort about going from 60% disabled to a hundred. It wasn't permanent, anyway. Just until he got better.

It just didn't feel like he ever would.

:::

Rodney rolled in after the late closing on Saturday night looking even blearier than he had been, and John started feeling really guilty, especially when Rodney said, "I never realized—you don't take any days off at all, do you? You're there every day, which means I'm there every day, and, not that I'm complaining, mind you—I'm not, John," Rodney rushed to say, looking anxious. "It's just, Weir is after me for the final blueprints, and they're starting construction for the new exhibit in just a few weeks, but I can do this—"

"You don't have to," John said, deciding that was it. He couldn't take seeing Rodney looking like that anymore, so bruised and tired. "Seriously, take Sunday off. If we fall a little bit behind it's no big deal. I just found out—" John cut himself off.

"What? What did you find out?"

"Just—I can probably get my compensation rating changed temporarily. There's even something called 'homebound benefits' I might be eligible for. So, you know, if sales take a little bit of a dive, it's not that big a deal. I can still, you know, pay everyone."

"Really? Because if—wait a minute, you're not lying, are you? I can go without sleep, you know. Two doctorates, remember? So if this is some nefarious plan to make me happy in spite of your business hanging on the brink of financial ruin—"

"Okay, that's enough being awake for today, I think." John pushed himself up and grabbed his crutches. "I'll call Sandi tomorrow morning and ask her to open." With his shoulder, he nudged Rodney toward the bedroom. "We'll sleep in and eat waffles."

"Waffles?" Rodney said, sounding helplessly wistful.

"With fresh whipped cream. I made Sandi bring me all the fixings."

"But I don't have a waffle iron."

John laughed. "Yes, you do. How often have you seen your own kitchen?"

"Not often enough, apparently." Rodney stripped off his over-shirt, then wandered into the bathroom while John clumped over to the bureau and pulled out a fresh T-shirt that read _quis custodiet ipsos custodes_ in bright yellow. He tossed it to Rodney when he came out of the bathroom, then traded places with him.

"Clean. Yes," Rodney said, holding it up to his face.

When Rodney McKay spoke in monosyllables, it was definitely time for sleep. So John butted him over toward the bed and went to brush his teeth.

By the time he came back out, Rodney was already crashed on the far side of the bed, his head under a pillow and one hand stretched into the empty spot beside him, as if looking for John in his sleep.

John smiled and went over to join him. It was only after he was already settled in and drifting that he suddenly remembered he hadn't told Rodney the full details of the phone call from that colonel.

He guessed it could keep.

:::

John woke up slowly, in no hurry at all. He could actually get used to that part, especially since Rodney was still next to him, huffing quiet snores into John's shoulder.

But it was Sunday and, crap, he had to call Sandi and ask her to open. John slowly got himself up, ignoring the plaintive sound Rodney made, and moved as quietly as he could to the living room, where he dialed Sandi. She sounded a bit foggy herself when she answered.

"Hullo?"

"Sorry to bother you, kiddo, but Rodney really needs a break today. I'm wondering if you and Ahs can go it alone."

"Yeah, of course. I noticed Rodney was looking a little tired yesterday."

"I know. Not sure how he's going to keep this up." John blamed his pre-coffee state for saying it out loud.

"No problem, we just need to get a temporary part-timer to do closings. Then Rodney can take off whenever the last roast of the day is done."

"Sandi, I don't know if I—" John cut himself off and started again. "Yeah, okay. You know anyone?"

"I think Monica is looking for work."

"Wow, really? She'd be terrific."

"I'll call her up and ask her."

"Okay, that's great. Ask her if she can start Monday afternoon."

"Will do, boss man."

John said thanks and hung up, then went to the kitchen to start the coffee going. He heard a moan and two thumps, and then the sound of the shower starting up.

"Get in here," Rodney yelled over the sound of the water. "You need a shower."

"Gee, thanks," John said, and made his way to the bathroom. "I smell that bad?" He gave his underarm a sniff.

"No, your hair." Rodney looked at him in the mirror and waved a hand at his head. "I think it's lost the will to live."

John's head did feel a little greasy, come to think of it, so he stripped off his T-shirt and dropped his boxers, then suspended himself on the crutches to step out of them.

"You're getting handy with those." Rodney's eyes traveled over John's body. "Plus your arms are getting, uh. Really big," Rodney said, turning a little pink. He grabbed his toothbrush and started brushing his teeth.

John hid a grin and ran a hand over his face. He needed a shave, too. "Give me a shave?"

"Serioflee?" Rodney garbled out around a mouth full of toothpaste, then finished brushing and rinsed before saying, "I'm not sure. I'd probably cut your throat and end up incarcerated. And then, of course, I'd have to email all my brilliant puzzle clues from the communal computer center."

John just raised an eyebrow.

"All right, yes. Come on, chop-chop." Rodney waved him into the shower.

"Hang on, I'm gonna take off the dressing."

John peeled off the big bandage. Underneath, the three small incisions from the arthroscope were almost fully healed. But the longer one on the side of his hip was still crusty and red. Still, it had been almost a week, so he figured it was okay if he got it wet now.

He tossed the dressing and took his little seat in the shower. It was getting easier to lower himself down—his hip felt less stiff, and he was getting used to the bar and the way he had to offset his weight.

Rodney came up behind him and stuck the shower attachment in his hair. Warm water bubbled over his scalp, and John made a happy sound.

"You're more like a cat than Punk," Rodney said, sounding amused.

"Scrub. Fingers."

"Yes, yes. Hedonist." Rodney washed John's hair, his fingers scrubbing just the way John liked. When he'd rinsed all the suds away, he left the shower and came back with a razor that he had John hold while he spread some foam on John's cheeks.

This was even better than the shampoo, the way Rodney so carefully dragged the razor down John's cheeks, and tilted John's head back against his warm, wet belly, then stroked up John's neck, moving so very slow and precise that it gave John shivers.

"Hey," Rodney said when he was almost done. "Don't you usually use an electric?"

He was navigating John's upper lip, so John had to suppress the smile. "Noticed that, did you?" he said when Rodney was finished.

"You. You're incorrigible."

"Nah. Just like having your hands on me."

Rodney was quiet behind him, but John could feel his tension—the good kind—and he tugged on Rodney's arm to make him come around to face him. Sure enough, Rodney's cock was perked up, the head just peeking from the sleeve of foreskin. John leaned forward and rubbed his newly smooth cheek against Rodney's shaft, and then capped the head with his mouth.

"Jesus!" Rodney's hands fell to John's shoulders and twitched there like they wanted to do more.

John pulled away for a second. "I can't really move a lot. You're gonna have to fuck my mouth."

"God, don't _talk_ like that."

"What?" John frowned. "Why?"

"Because, you idiot, I'll come all over your face."

"Not a problem," John said, noting for the record that Rodney really liked dirty talk. Rodney groaned again and pushed forward, almost forcing his cock into John's mouth, and John opened up happily and took it, took the salty shaft onto his tongue and pushed it up against his palate. Then he waited, just holding Rodney in his mouth.

Rodney started slow, his fingers almost hesitant on John's jaw, tracing lightly over and then back to sink into John's wet hair. Then Rodney gripped him a little harder and started to thrust.

John loved this. He always had—sucking cock was like a mission, almost. He liked to make it good, so good that he felt like he was flying a little, from the power, from the male heat of it.

Rodney was moaning softly while he thrust, his cock rising up from the push of John's tongue so it hit the back of John's throat. John took a deep breath through his nose and then relaxed his throat, so that the next time Rodney thrust forward he slipped right on down.

"Oh! Ohhhh," Rodney groaned. "John—John—John," he said, shoving almost gracelessly now, obviously getting close, and John focused on timing it right, then inhaled one last time before slipping his hand between Rodney's thighs to push a firm knuckle behind his balls, pressing up.

"Yes," Rodney muttered, and his hands tightened in John's hair in warning. Then Rodney was coming, throbbing over John's tongue. John waited, holding Rodney's jerking cock in his mouth until he'd finished coming, and then pulled away to swallow.

And breathe. John chuckled a little when he saw Rodney was holding onto the handicap rail like he was about to keel over.

"Laugh it up, smart guy. Just wait until I get you horizontal."

"Not sure I'm—"

"La-la-la, not listening," Rodney said, and bent to plant a quick kiss on John's forehead before handing him the soap and the shower attachment. "Wash up. I'll meet you on the big, fluffy horizontal thing."

"The bed?" John said, lathering under his arms.

"Yes, the...thing. Bed. Need coffee first, however."

"No kidding." A washcloth hit John in the back of the head, but before he could retaliate, Rodney was gone.

John took his time finishing up. He just wasn't sure he could give Rodney what he wanted. John had already tried jerking off a couple of times over the past couple of days, and he just couldn't come. The painkillers were to blame; he'd experienced the same thing the last time he was on them, when he would have given anything for the simple relief of jerking off during one of those endless nights in his hospital room.

When he found himself rinsing under his arms for the third time, he decided he was being ridiculous, and turned off the water before hauling himself up. Grabbing a towel, he did a quick dry and then threw it over his shoulder and made his way into the bedroom.

Rodney was already there, a tray with a carafe and two cups of steaming coffee sitting on top of the bed. There was also a bowl with two bananas and a bunch of fresh strawberries. John's mouth was watering even before he leaned his crutches against the wall and maneuvered himself onto the bed.

"Food," Rodney mumbled, his mouth full of what looked like at least three strawberries, and he waved John toward the tray.

John draped the towel over his lap and went for the coffee first. It was Rodney's still unnamed blend. They'd traded some suggestions back and forth over emails the day before. Rodney's favorite, "Brain Juice," made John cringe a little, thinking of spinal fluid. John's "Dark Star" made Rodney come back with "Red Dwarf," which John thought was just a little too damned geeky and also completely irrelevant. But then Rodney came up with "Rojomolo," which John hadn't told him yet was pretty good. Perfect, actually.

"I thought I was gonna make you waffles," John said, taking another sip. He hadn't dried off all the way, and he could feel the sheets getting damp under him.

"Later. First, coffee. Then, orgasm."

"Don't get your hopes up," John muttered, apparently not softly enough, because Rodney rolled his eyes and shook a banana at him.

"Even if you can't, at least I'll get to play a little," Rodney said, sounding plaintive. "You're...hot, okay? I don't think you realize how...how rare the opportunity is for, well, someone like me to get a chance to be with someone who looks like—"

"Rodney." John's chest hurt.

"—no, you really, you couldn't understand, John."

"You think so? You think I'm such a prize, Rodney? I'm a gimp. I'm a cripple—" John thought of the scars barely healing on top of the older ones on his hip.

"Oh, yes. A fucking gorgeous—"

"Yeah, well, you too!"

Rodney's mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide. There was a bead of red strawberry juice at the corner of his mouth, and John pushed himself forward and licked it off, stroked his tongue along Rodney's lips until he opened up and took him in. He tasted like all the best things, like a summer fair, like cotton candy and candied apples and someone John wanted to kiss just like this for a long time, slow and deep and soft.

When John pulled away, Rodney's face was flushed bright, almost as bright as his eyes.

"Gorgeous," John whispered, then jumped when Rodney's hand sneaked under the towel and closed around his cock.

"Lie back," Rodney said. No, really, it was more like a command, and John obeyed without thought, because Rodney's hand was good, it was great, warm and strong and shifting the skin of his cock up and over the head then down again, a hypnotizing rhythm that John relaxed into with a quiet moan.

Rodney stopped for a second and pulled away the towel, his eyes eating John up, which was pretty gratifying seeing as John was feeling like Quasimodo. But not in Rodney's eyes, which didn't seem to see the ugly stitches or the scars, or how pathetically scrawny John's leg was getting from all the forced inactivity.

No, Rodney looked at him like he was a chocolate decadence cake complete with mocha buttercream frosting. And when he leaned over and took John's cock in his mouth, he moaned as if John tasted like it, too.

God, it was good to have Rodney's mouth, and the way his fingers moved restlessly over John's thighs, then slid between them to fondle his balls. John still wasn't sure if he could come, but he could roll with this. He let his good leg fall out to the side in unspoken invitation. Rodney sucked harder for a little while, then pulled away, his hand taking over for his mouth.

"Think you can come?"

"Dunno. Maybe?" John said, and, "Sorry—"

But Rodney just rolled his eyes and said, "Let me try something." He let go and went to the nightstand, coming back with a bottle of lube.

"You gonna fuck me?" John said, a little hopeful, but he didn't see how it would work. There was pretty much no position that wasn't painful for him short of lying on his back, and he couldn't bend his bad leg back. "Not sure—"

"Not right now," Rodney said, and squeezed out some lube, his tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth. "Close your eyes."

John closed his eyes and tried to relax. It was weird having performance anxiety about coming; usually it was the other way around. It was easier with his eyes closed, though, and he relaxed into Rodney's grip, and listened to the slick sounds of Rodney's stroking his cock.

A light touch glanced behind his balls, and he murmured his approval, propping his good foot up on the bed to give Rodney room. Then Rodney's fingers were sliding into him, and John moaned helplessly at the slick pressure on his prostate. Rodney stroked down to the base of John's cock, pressing down, fingers pushing up, and did it again, starting a slow, inexorable rhythm that rolled over John like a wave, spreading pleasure over and through him, again and again. He didn't think he could, but he was there, it was there, and then he was coming, almost like a dream, not as intense, but going on for what seemed like forever. He gave a long, satisfied moan and eventually opened his eyes.

Rodney was looking down at him and grinning way too smugly.

"Yeah, yeah," John croaked out.

"I rocked your tiny universe."

John groaned and threw his forearm over his eyes.

Rodney sniffed. "I deserve waffles, I think. Definitely."

"Maybe," John said, heaving his hand up to ruffle Rodney's thinning hair. "Okay, definitely," he said a moment later when Rodney tweaked his nipple a little too damned hard. "Help me up and I'll make you waffles."

"And I believe there was a promise of fresh whipped cream."

"Slave driver."

"Yes, yes. Poor pitiful you."

Except when John had cleaned up and made it out to the kitchen, he found Rodney had already dragged out all the ingredients and put them on the kitchen table, along with mixing bowls and measuring cups and everything else John needed to do it all while still sitting comfortably.

"You're a big softie," John said.

"I just believe in efficiency."

Sandi had brought some crazy, organic pre-made mix, so all John had to do was beat in the eggs and buttermilk. Rodney hauled out an ancient waffle iron and plugged it in. The first waffle stuck so thoroughly to the iron that it split in half when he opened it. Rodney cursed and muttered something about insufficient heat and dug out the sticky crumbs, then dumped some butter on the iron before John tried again. The second waffle was greasy and misshapen, but Rodney slathered it with whip cream and strawberries and ate it happily enough. The third waffle was even better—a perfect circle, crispy and golden brown. Rodney eyed it with jealousy when John put it on his own plate, so he handed it over and started making a fourth.

"All right, you might be an okay boyfriend," Rodney allowed generously while he poured maple syrup on top of the whipping cream this time. When he was finished constructing his toppings, John could barely see the waffle underneath.

"I'm better than okay," John grumbled. His stomach was growling, and he pulled his own waffle a little too soon—it was a little mushy, but tasted great, especially covered with butter, his own choice in toppings. "What're we going to do today?"

"I don't know about you, harem boy, but I have exhibit blueprints to go over."

An hour later, though, Rodney was crashed out in a carbohydrate coma on the bed, the Sunday crossword crumpled under one elbow and Ada asleep on his chest. John pulled the puzzle free and went back to the couch to work on it. As soon as he started in on the first clue he remembered the phone call he had never finished telling Rodney about. He dug up the crossword from the day before and copied the number to a sticky note that he stuck onto the cover of Rodney's computer.

Ada wandered in and gave him an imperious look, so John hoisted himself up and went to feed her.

Punk was already waiting in the kitchen by her bowl. The two cats had worked out a system where John would fill Ada's bowl with her macrobiotic, gourmet soft cat food, pour Punk her usual kibble, and then step back and watch them sniff their bowls and then switch to happily chow down on each other's dinner.

John was pretty sure Rodney hadn't figured it out yet, and was hoping he could go on being oblivious until John moved out, otherwise he imagined there would be serious hell to pay. And really, John was more worried about what he would do when Punk would have to go back to the cheaper kibble.

Rodney woke up a couple of hours later, coming up behind John with a huge yawn and bending over the back of the couch to see what he was working on.

"Those are my blueprints," Rodney said, sounding puzzled and even a little bit alarmed. He came around and squeezed himself down in between John and the arm of the sofa, John shifting forward to give him some more room.

"Yeah. I'm just going over the math. Also, Jesus, Rodney—this exhibit is going to be seriously awesome."

"Really? You think so? Because, yes, of course I think it will be terrific, but then I'm an adult, and it seems to me you, with your more immature mindset—"

"Hey, now—"

"—would be a much more proper judge of its 'cool.'"

"Well, I do know my cool," John said. "In fact, I'm the coolest of the cool."

Rodney rolled his eyes, but John noticed he didn't argue the point.

"And this really is neat. I love the water cannon."

"Of course you would."

"Because, you know, the properties of water pressure—oh, and the electromagnetic crane—seriously, I don't think a kid can fully understand the properties of magnetism until they've used a crane to hoist two hundred pounds of scrap metal."

"And dump it all over the floor."

"That part's _really_ cool. But my favorite is the aerodynamics exhibit." John ducked his head. "It looks...this part's new, isn't it?"

"Yes." Rodney cleared his throat.

"You're getting the _Spirit of America_ on loan? Really?"

"I have friends." Rodney coughed. "Well, colleagues, at the the MSI in Chicago."

"Land-speed record of 539.89 miles per hour," John said reverently.

Rodney smiled at him, a flush still high on his cheekbones, and John smirked back and then had to kiss him.

"I want to come see. The ground-breaking, I mean."

"Your hip—"

"Can handle a twenty-minute cab ride. It better, since I'm seeing Ronon tomorrow."

Rodney scowled. "He's going to want to begin the sadistic torture routine, I imagine."

"Yeah, they call it 'physical therapy' these days."

"It's no less than medieval, regardless the name."

"Way to keep my spirits up, Rodney." John pointed back at the laptop screen. "Come on, show me what else you've got cooking."

Rodney reached over and started paging through the various schematics. They got into an argument about the tensile strength of rubber—not a new fight, but one John always enjoyed. That led to a back-and-forth about what to name the hot air balloon exhibit, and then it was time for John's meds again.

"That's it!" Rodney said, hitting return. "I've just sent 'em off. Now I just need to not look at them again because now that they're finalized I'll find all the mistakes I missed." He closed his laptop, and then frowned and pulled the sticky note from the top. "What's this number?"

"Oh, shit. I've been meaning to tell you about that since yesterday."

"Tell me what?" Rodney crossed his arms, looking defensive.

"That's for you. Someone called for you on your landline. I left you a message about it on your voice mail."

"I didn't check." Rodney looked down at the slip. "719 area code." His face went pale. "Colorado," he said.

"From a Colonel Carter. She was way paranoid and told me to tell you face to face, and to get you to call her back on a secured phone."

"God. Colonel _Sam_ Carter?"

"It was a woman," John said, his mouth suddenly dry. He couldn't get a read on Rodney's expression.

"How did she find me? I have to call her." Rodney was suddenly on his feet. He stuffed his feet into his shoes, then looked down at his boxers and pushed his shoes off again to pull on his pants.

"Rodney, what's this about? And why the hell are you getting dressed?"

"Can't talk right now, busy freaking out," Rodney said, hopping on one foot while he kept yanking on his pants, which didn't seem to be cooperating. John gave them a second look and realized why.

"Those are my pants, Rodney."

"No wonder," Rodney said, and shoved them off again, then went spinning into his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

After a moment, John heard Rodney's voice rising in anger, the words muffled, and John pushed himself off the sofa and grabbed his crutches. But Rodney was already rushing out again, now fully dressed except untied shoelaces, and carrying a small, wicked-looking PDA-thing that John had never seen before.

"Going now. Back—I don't know when. Soon. I hope."

John planted himself in front of Rodney's charge toward the door, trusting him to at least have the presence of mind not to cream the cripple.

"Just wait."

"John! I have to—"

"Just tell me _where_ you're going. That's all," John said, asking for what he thought he could get.

"I—I can't." Rodney grabbed his arm. "Seriously, I can't, John, but I swear I won't—well, I can't promise, but I'll try—" Rodney cut himself off and then stood there for one second, his mouth opening and closing, blue eyes blinking like all words had deserted him. "Have to go," he said finally. "Oh, _God_ , I'm sorry, I really am, but it's for—for the best. Not for long, and I'll be in touch," he said, and jerked his chin and looked over John's shoulder.

John got the hell out of his way.

:::

Rodney didn't come back that night. John forced himself to follow the routine—cleaned up the remains of their waffle brunch, picked up the loose clothing lying around so he wouldn't trip over them if he had to get around at night. He took his meds and went to bed, but didn't fall asleep for a long time, just studied in his mind's eye what Rodney's face had looked like after that hurried phone call. Was it fear? Hope was in there, too, but definitely fear, and something else John couldn't get a hook on.

The only thing John could figure was this tied back to the phone call from that scientist in Antarctica, and John tried to remember what Doubledoc had told him about why he was booted from the scientific community. Something about global warming, and an experiment gone awry, and people still interested in him as a result.

If Rodney had been trying to hide for some reason, he obviously hadn't done a very good job at it.

John was still chewing it over when he fell into a troubled sleep.

:::

Rodney still wasn't back by morning, and John hoped that meant he'd gone directly to the roastery, but he really didn't have time to think about it, because he had to drag himself up, take a shower, and call a cab to get to the doc's. Once there, they made him sit and wait, long enough that he got bored and started to read the covers of all the magazines he would never lay his eyes on otherwise, and wondered who these weird, glossy people were who seemed to get into all sorts of trouble—growing too thin, or too fat, or getting drunk and falling offstage while pregnant with the illegitimate child of their roadie.

John was pondering the question, _Does your lover think you're too 'vanilla' in bed?_ when the nurse called him into the examination room. Dr. Dex came in soon afterward wearing a white lab coat and a big grin.

"How're you doing, Sheppard?"

"Pretty good. Had a little trouble getting up on this table, though."

"Sorry about that. I'm thinking about getting one with hydraulics."

"I bet Rodney could help you with that." But thinking about Rodney brought back the worried feeling in John's stomach.

"So, let's see where we're at. Lie back for me."

If John had thought there'd be anything sexy about being flat on his back with Ronon spreading his legs, the next few minutes proved him seriously wrong. It hurt. It felt like Ronon was trying to tear his leg off, or maybe pull every one of the stitches he'd bothered putting in, and John wasn't even sure his leg was meant to go out that far to begin with.

John held his breath and just focused on not making any embarrassing whimpering noises, and gasped out answers to Ronon's occasional, "Does this hurt? This? How about when I do this? What kind of pain?"

Finally, Ronon eased his leg back down onto to the table and said, "It's looking good. You can start putting partial weight on your leg. No walking, though," he said sternly, "just when standing."

"Really? Cool."

"Okay, now let's get your pants down."

This time, John's brain wasn't even tempted to go to the sexy place. He just untied his sweatpants and pushed them below the fresh dressing he'd taped on that morning.

Ronon peeled it off and probed a little at the incisions. "The sutures can go, but I'm going to put a couple of butterflies along the bigger incision. You can get the area wet, but reapply new butterflies afterward, okay? I'll give you some to take home."

"Okay."

Ronon unsealed a suture kit and pulled out a pair of curved scissors, which he used to snip under John's sutures one by one, giving them a little tug as he pulled them out.

"Can I start P.T.?" John asked when Ronon was done and had started taping him up.

"Yup. Three times a week to start. I'll give you a prescription to take to the V.A."

"Great." John tried to sound enthusiastic, but he'd been through this before and remembered what a long haul it was.

Ronon finished up and gave John's shoulder a squeeze. "You'll do fine. Be better before you know it."

"Hope so."

"I'll see you in three weeks. Make an appointment before you leave." Ronon went over to the sink and started washing his hands.

"Will do. Thanks."

"No problem. Just get better. I'm looking forward to giving Hal a call when you're on your feet."

John pulled up his pants and sat up. It felt good to have the stitches out. "How is that tough old bastard, anyway?"

Ronon grinned ruefully. "Still tough. He made me send him the video from your surgery. I was scared he would bust my balls if he saw anything he didn't like."

"Good thing you're good," John said. "I didn't realize you were keeping him in the loop." It made him a little uncomfortable thinking about Ronon and Hal going over his file like dogs with a bone.

Ronon gave him a narrow look, then said. "Yeah, I am. That a problem?"

"No, that's fine." John rubbed his forehead. "So, three weeks?"

"Three weeks." Ronon tapped him on the knee with his file and left.

John got his shit together, backpack strapped on, crutches in place, and gingerly put some weight on his bad leg. It hurt, like something was caught inside the joint; at the same time, his leg muscles felt great—like they were relieved he was using them again. It felt good, and John smiled a little, then crutched himself to the front desk and made his next appointment.

When he got downstairs, it took him a while to flag down a cab. Finally a blue and white van cab pulled up in front of the hospital, and John awkwardly got the door open and hauled himself in. His first stop, he decided, was the roastery. He missed it like a lost tooth—missed Zeke and Sandi and Ahs, missed the customers, and the sense of pride he got when he looked around and saw contented coffee drinkers enjoying his space. 

The cabbie dropped him off right at the corner, and John gave her a nice tip in thanks for opening the door and helping him out of the cab. As soon as he stumped in the door, Sandi gave out a, "Hey, boss!" It seemed like everyone in the place turned and waved, saying, "Hi, John" and "Welcome back!"

"Hi, everyone," John said a little weakly, a warm feeling in his chest. "Rodney in back?" he asked Sandi when she came around the counter.

Sandi shook her head, all her earrings jangling, and suddenly her eyes were everywhere but on John.

"Where is he?"

"He didn't say, boss. Just called and said he couldn't make it in, and asked if Zeke could stay a little past his shift. Zeke called Anna and she dropped little Dylan off here."

"Oh. Crap. Okay, I'll—"

"You'll sit down, is what you'll do. Everything's cool. I've got Dylan tucked behind the counter and he's sleeping...well, like a baby, really. Zeke is in back watching the roasts."

"Still want to say hi," John said stubbornly.

"All right. But you'd better come right back out or I'm sending in the cavalry."

"Yes, ma'am."

John went around the corner and took a peek at little Dylan, who was asleep all right, one small fist tucked next to his face. He was wearing a pale green outfit with little motorcycles printed on it, and John had to grin.

Zeke was in the roasting room, sitting on the old wooden chair next to Little Nemo and reading a paper. He put it down as John came in, a broad smile on his face.

"Thought I heard a hullabaloo."

"Hullabaloo? You talk like that around the kid?"

"He's getting used to it. How's it going, boss-man?"

"Doing all right, Zeke. Thanks for asking." John took a look around. "How're things?" Something looked different, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Zeke came up to him and started nudging him toward the door, "Everything's great. I'd've called you if it weren't."

"But McKay—"

"Had stuff to take care of, I get that. And so do you—like sitting down and taking it easy."

"I'm not—" _crippled_ , John wanted to say, except it wasn't true, was it? So, he let Zeke push him out, let Sandi set him up in his corner with the paper and a hot coffee and a raspberry scone. He stared out the window, watching the people on the street. Some good-looking guy in a cheesy suit stared back at him before turning away. John smiled to himself.

Folks swung by to say hello on their way in or out—Miss Emma, with her knitting kit and her pictures of her grandchildren, eight of them now; Carlotta, Sandi's little Goth friend who worked as a valet at a restaurant down the street; Anton and Dietrich, the good-looking gay couple who'd caught John and Rodney kissing that morning in the café; and Mr. Kreutchfeld, who carried a portable, magnetic checker set with him everywhere he went, hoping to corral suckers into a playing a game, "For peanuts," he always said, "to keep it interesting."

John had thought he was alone after leaving the service, that he'd lost his makeshift family when he'd lost his crew, but he was starting to realize that wasn't true anymore, because these people were all backing him up—Teyla and Ronon, Sandi and Zeke and Ahs, and the folks from his neighborhood who wanted to see John get through his surgery, wanted to see his business survive.

If only he fucking knew where Rodney was.

Pulling out his cell phone, he flipped it open and tried Rodney's number again; it went straight to voice-mail, and even though he knew Rodney never retrieved his messages, John left one anyway.

"McKay, where are you? I'm starting to get a little worried, buddy. Call me when you get this."

John settled back to eat his scone and sip his coffee while he watched the people passing by his window. It was good to be back. Chickee pulled up into the parking spot in front of the café, and John sat up suddenly.

Rodney's car was still back in front of the apartment. John had seen it when the cab pulled up, but it hadn't registered, he was so focused on getting to his appointment on time.

But if Rodney's car was at his apartment, then where the hell was Rodney, and how had he gotten to wherever he was?

John pushed himself up and jammed the crutches under his arms.

"You taking off, boss?" Sandi asked, looking worried. "You didn't finish your scone."

"I...I left my meds back at the apartment. I'll take it with me." John wrapped his scone in a napkin and stuffed it in his pocket. "Tell Zeke to take off soon, all right? The rest of the roasts can wait until tomorrow."

"All right. Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"It's less than a block away, Sandi."

"Yeah, but—"

John shook his head and left, swinging his crutches in a hurry. He powered down the street, and was sweating by the time he reached Rodney's apartment, his hands damp with more than the exercise.

The newspaper was in the recycling bin where he'd left it—for once, John was glad Rodney never took out his trash. The colonel's info was still there at the top of the crossword. John pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number.

_"This is Carter."_

"Colonel Carter? My name is John Sheppard. We spoke on the phone the other day?" There was silence on the other end, and John tried, "We have a mutual friend?"

 _"Oh, right. What is it?"_ she said, sounding tense.

"Is he—do you know his whereabouts?"

_"I'm sorry, I can't divulge that. Also, is this a secure line?"_

John bit back a curse and said carefully, "I just need to know he's all right. Can you tell me that much?"

_"He's fine. Even more irritating than I remembered, but just fine."_

John made his way over to the couch, feeling weak with relief. "Can you give him a message?"

 _"I'll tell him you called. But I'm sorry, he won't be able to respond. This conversation alone is unsanctioned and dangerous. Do you understand?"_ she asked sharply.

John found himself responding with an automatic, "Understood, sir."

_"Huh. You're military."_

"Ex."

_"Well, I'm hoping you still know how to take orders, because you have to hang up now and lose this number. We'll contact you when the situation has changed."_

"Understood. Thank you." John flipped his cell phone shut and stared at it for a second, then tossed it onto the coffee table.

_Rodney, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into?_

:::

There was nothing he could do, no one he could call, and John thought he would lose his mind. So he did some stuff he'd been putting off—scheduled his physical therapy at the V.A., sent an email to Ronon with the contact info of the nice lady in the compensation office. He had bills to pay for the roastery preying on his mind, but they were back on his desk, so he decided to put that off until tomorrow.

He lied to himself a little bit longer that he wasn't going to go snooping around Rodney's office to try to figure out what the hell he'd been messing around with that he'd had to disappear, but John found himself digging through Rodney's desk not ten minutes later. He found pictures of a younger Rodney with some curly-haired blond who looked a little like him, and stacks of scientific journals with articles flagged that Rodney had authored. Both the photographs and the journals were curled with age. A dead end.

In Rodney's top drawer, John found his checkbook, his passport—Jesus, Rodney had been all over the world—and a weird, egg-shaped thing that glowed blue when John touched it. Nightlight or stress ball, maybe. There was also a set of old keys on an alien-head keychain that read, "Area 51, Nevada."

This was totally pointless. John knew exactly where Rodney was. He was probably fine, just fine. Hell, he was probably in protective custody somewhere driving some poor airman absolutely nuts with his demands.

But even if he wasn't, John wasn't in any position to help him. He wasn't that guy anymore—he'd done his last rescue, thrown his final hail Mary, and had paid the price. He was useless. A cripple.

If Rodney wasn't safe, John couldn't save him.

Somehow, that hurt worst of all.

:::

  
  



:::

John went to his first physical therapy session the next morning. It was just as grueling as he remembered it—putting himself in someone else's hands, giving them permission to hurt him.

Her name was Gina, and she was maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, but she had muscles like steel, and when she had John trapped on his back and started pushing his leg in a direction it _definitely_ did not want to go, for a split second he had an almost overwhelming urge to punch her in the face. He wanted that badly to get free.

It didn't help that he couldn't even talk when it hurt that bad—his first reaction was to hold his breath and wait it out, which meant she just kept on going until finally he forced himself to say, "Enough. God."

She eased up and stretched his leg out again. "You need to talk to me a little more. I need the feedback or I can't help you."

"I'll try."

Gina nodded, her dark hair swinging against her face, and picked up his sheet to make a note. "Okay, we have your baseline. Now I want to get you warmed up. We'll start with a soak, and do some ultra-sound. Then some exercises."

"You got it."

By the time she was finished with him a couple of hours later, he wasn't sure he'd even be able to get himself home. He was both exhausted from the pain and also a little high from it, and his whole body felt trembly and weak.

He made the cab drop him off at the café again, though. Ahsarvat was there, and came up as soon as he walked in the door, then hovered uncertainly in front of him.

"You are all right, boss?"

"I'm fine, Ahs. How are things?"

"Most excellent. We are taking good care here."

"I know you are, buddy. You always do."

"Ezekiel is still in the back; would you like me to fetch him?"

"No, thanks, I'll go myself. I need to work in my office for a little bit, anyway."

"Please call me if you need anything."

"Will do."

Ahs put out his hand, and John shook it, a little bemused.

"It is good to see you, boss."

"Good to be seen."

John went back to his office and unslung his backpack, then stuffed the stack of bills and his checkbook in there before zipping back up.

Zeke was emptying the DeLorean when John came into the roasting room. "Hey, Zeke."

"Boss! You left without saying goodbye yesterday."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Oh, it was good to see Dylan. He's getting huge."

Zeke grinned at him. "Anna says he'll be a linebacker for sure."

"Yeah. So." John scratched the back of his neck. "I'm good to take over now. Let you get home."

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

"Zeke. McKay isn't—he had some business out of town. That leaves me, and as you can see, I'm doing okay. I can at least watch the roasts—"

"And who's going to do the lifting? Who's going to haul the hoppers and dump the beans?"

John clumped over to the old chair by Little Nemo and held both crutches in his right hand so he could ease himself down.

"I'll ask Ahs. Or Sandi can. But you can't keep working double shifts. You _know_ you can't. Anna and Dylan need you at home."

"Yeah." Zeke nodded slowly. "But on the other hand, you could bust something and not be able to walk ever. So I think, on balance, I'd better stick around."

"How 'bout we compromise? On days I have P.T., you do a shift and a half, on days I don't, you take off by noon and let me work things out."

Zeke sniffed, then clapped his hands together once and offered for a shake. "Deal."

"Deal."

:::

It wasn't as hard as John thought it would be, but it was still pretty goddamned difficult to ask for help when he needed it. Monica started working in overlap with Ahsarvat, so Ahs always followed John into the back room whenever he got that itch to check on the roasts. Ahs also learned to load the upper bins, and when it came time to pull the roasts, he had a strong back and never made John feel like a wimp for not being able to handle the physical stuff.

And Rodney still didn't call, or that colonel, either, and the sick feeling in John's gut hardened into something else, something that cut at him at night alone in Rodney's bed. Well, not exactly alone, since both Punk and Ada had decided the empty space was up for grabs, and took to sleeping next to him, sometimes flicking him with their tails or trying to burrow under the covers with him.

It helped a little, but, God, he missed Rodney. There was this giant hole where he should be, talking and bitching and giving John that soft-eyed look of surprise whenever John reached out for him.

Damn it, John couldn't _reach_ him.

It occurred to him to check the mathpuzzlers group, because maybe Rodney would figure that was safe enough, anonymous enough. John was almost afraid to try only to be disappointed, but he hauled himself up and went to his office to boot up his box.

There was a bunch of old traffic he had to skip past, messages and puzzles that pulled at him, but he forced himself to ignore the distraction and page through to the more recent postings.

There were a couple of new users on the list. Nothing from Doubledoc, but one posting, a really elegant solution equation to a truel puzzle, practically screamed Doubledoc. And the username was "Molorojo."

John's breath caught when he saw it, and he reached out and touched the screen, his chest tight. The name was just enough of a twist not to get caught in a text search. Rodney was being very careful.

John didn't dare send a private message, but he posted a general response to the list, saying, "It's _really_ good to see new players. Welcome."

He figured Rodney could read between the lines.

:::

  
  



:::

After three weeks of P.T., Ronon gave John the go-ahead to start putting real weight on his leg. He dropped to one crutch, and sometimes left it leaning against the wall and lurched around. The ground glass feeling gave way to a stretchy ache, but he still felt precarious, like a sneeze could knock him over, and going down stairs was a real bitch, every step uncertain.

His team was behind him, smoothly filling the gaps. Monica, when she wasn't manning the counter, sat across from John and twiddled tunes on her guitar. The songs were beautiful—spare and a little haunting—and he had a feeling she wouldn't be pushing coffee for much longer.

After another week or so of rehab, he started doing closing again, even though on P.T. days he could hardly muster the energy to get up from his cushy seat and clean up.

It'd been over a month since Rodney had disappeared and he still hadn't called. John's hip was doing well enough that they'd put him on the stationary bicycle in P.T., and he was giving some thought to starting to ride his own around again. He'd have to ask Ronon if that was cool.

Late on Saturday night, after he waved Monica and Ahs out the door, he locked up and went into the back to do the weighing and bagging he'd been putting off all day.

He liked the roastery like this, when it was quiet, just him and the machines and the quiet tick of the clock. John leaned sideways, bracing his arm on the roaster for balance, and tipped the cooling tray into the trolley bin. The beans slid out, oily and dark, a perfect French roast. He lost a couple on the transfer when his hip started to give, but he locked it and finished pouring.

Leaning on the bar of the trolley, he pushed it slowly toward the storeroom, then went around it to open the door. Not bothering to flick on the light, he turned and pulled on the handle of the trolley, slowly limping backward into the storeroom.

There was a sound behind him; a wrong sound, human or animal, and John nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt something brush his ankle.

"Jesus!" John tried to spin around, but his hip gave out completely and he slammed back into the shelves with a thump.

"Who's there?"

John knew that voice. With a shaky breath, he pulled on the chain dangling from the light socket to find Rodney curled up in the corner on a nest made of sacks of green beans. He blinked owlishly up at John.

"Rodney, what in the _Christ_?"

"You scared me," Rodney said accusingly, sounding about seven years old, his hair sticking every which way.

"Oh, _really_ sorry about that. Guess I forgot to knock." John pushed himself away from the shelf digging into his kidneys. "I repeat: what the fucking Christ? What are you doing here? Strike that—where the hell have you _been_?"

"Um." Rodney frowned. "Hiding?"

"Yeah, I got that much from the whole skulking in the closet thing."

"I'm not _skulking_ ," Rodney said, sounding disgruntled. "I'm endeavoring not to be kidnapped by a complete madman, if you must know."

"Yeah, I want to know. Christ, I've been worried. C'mere."

Rodney took John's hand and helped himself up. " _You've_ been worried—hey! No crutches!" Rodney eyed him suspiciously, "Are you all right? Let me see."

"I'm fine. Jesus." John pulled Rodney into a hug, helpless to do anything but breathe his relief against Rodney's neck. "You fucking disappeared on me. For over a month."

"Thirty-four days precisely," Rodney said, sounding husky. "Believe me, I know."

"I tried calling that crazy colonel of yours, but she wouldn't tell me anything at all."

"You called her? What am I saying, of course you called her. Tell me you didn't use your cell phone."

"I dunno. I think so, why?"

"Because...shit. We have to go."

"Go? Where? Why?"

"Because if Wallace was tracing Colonel Carter's phone, which it has become clear he was, then he knows you contacted her about me. And if he knows that, he knows who you are and what you do, and has probably been watching the place, and I was really hoping to keep you out of this, that's why I _left_ , except I needed to see you, and Carter's muscleman brigade wouldn't let me even contact you, so of course I had to come _here_ , and now we are both utterly, utterly screwed—"

"Hey." John pulled back and took Rodney by the shoulders to shake him a little. "We're fine. We'll be fine."

Rodney shook his head slowly and stared at him with earnest blue eyes. "We'll be kidnapped and Wallace will use you to get me to do something very stupid—impossible, really—that just can't be done without the destruction of the known universe—"

"Not gonna happen. Although, I have to say a little more of an explanation would be helpful. In the meantime, c'mon." John put his arm around Rodney's shoulders and coaxed him into the roasting room.

"Did you like my improvements?" Rodney asked, sounding distracted.

"Improvements?"

"Zeke didn't tell you?" Rodney puffed up proudly and went over to Little Nemo to pat the roaster possessively. "I found a way to increase your gas efficiency by a hundred and twenty-three percent." He frowned. "It would have been a hundred and forty-five but there's that air leak in the ceiling vents, and I don't do structural repair."

"A hundred and twenty-three percent?" John felt a little dizzy.

"Your gas bill this month should be significantly lower."

"You're amazing. You're just amazing." John gave Rodney a quick kiss. "Except when you disappear for thirty-four days. Come on." John led the way to his office, trying hard not to lurch as he went around to his desk and pulled out his keys. In the bottom right drawer was the lock box, right where he'd left it, and he used another key to get it open and pull out his Glock. He popped the magazine and methodically started checking the weapon; it hadn't been discharged in over three years.

"You have a gun."

"I told you I did," John said, smiling reassuringly at Rodney, who was standing in the doorway looking uncertain. "You do remember I used to shoot them for a living?"

"Yes, I'm well aware." Rodney crossed his arms. "It just seems...strange."

"Strange but sometimes necessary. Tell me about this Wallace guy."

"He's after my bridge. I—remember the experiment that led to my immediate excommunication from the scientific community?"

"Yeah," John nodded encouragingly. His hands moved automatically, checking the action of the slide.

"Well, it was perhaps a little more dangerous than I led you to believe. Essentially, I opened a matter bridge to a different dimension in hopes we could siphon away the excess heat that is a result of global warming. Only the bridge was unstable, and could possibly have, sort of, destroyed both dimensions if we hadn't succeeded in shutting it down."

"Different dimensions," John said slowly. "Destroy the universe."

Rodney nodded, his eyes bright. "I know. Amazing. And incredibly, incredibly stupid. And this Wallace fellow—he used some very dubious stolen research in an attempt to save his daughter's life. She had leukemia. And it almost worked, except it went horribly wrong, and she died anyway, and now he's after my bridge because he thinks he can cross over and, well, get her back. Or another her. He's certifiable."

"This is...really out there, Rodney."

"Yes, yes, I know, it's hard to believe, but you really had better, because even though Colonel Carter managed to capture or kill all of Wallace's minions, and freeze his accounts, he's still out there, and he's after me. He wants me to open that bridge. And, I can't. Really, I can't do that—"

"Okay, okay." John snapped the clip into the reassembled gun, put the safety on and chambered a round, and then pushed up from his seat and stuck the gun into the back of his pants. "We're getting out of here." It didn't matter if Rodney was out of his freaking mind and spouting science fiction fantasies, or if all of it was completely true. The important thing was John had him back, and he'd be damned if he let anything happen to him.

"But the cats—"

"We'll pick up the cats and go to a hotel. We won't contact anyone." John scribbled a quick note to Sandi and took it with him to the counter, where he left it propped up on the register. His crutch was there, and he jammed it under his arm. They were going to need some speed, and he'd didn't plan to slow Rodney up and possibly get him kidnapped because of stupid pride.

"I can't believe this. This is so my life," Rodney groaned on the way to his apartment. "Just when I had everything the way I wanted it."

John wanted to say something comforting, but he was busy looking everywhere—it had been too damned long since he was in ops mode, and it was discomfiting how fast it was coming back to him. His eyes never stopped moving, and he felt like he could see with his skin, he was that alert and alive.

He hadn't even realized he missed the feeling—that was the uncomfortable part.

There was no movement on the street. They got to the apartment, and John made Rodney stay behind him until he'd checked the lock and opened the door, giving a quick look around before entering.

"Come on," he said, leaning on his crutch as he went to check the kitchen, the bedroom and the bathroom. Nothing seemed disturbed. "Get the cat carriers. I'll pack up some stuff."

Rodney went scurrying to the laundry and brought the two cat carriers into the living room, while John went into the bedroom and grabbed his backpack and started jamming some clothes into it. When he brought it out to the living room, Rodney was already packing his own backpack with clothing straight from the laundry basket.

John grabbed the squeaky mouse and Punk came running out. John bent and picked her up, then tried to coax her into the carrier. She was having none of it, and started squirming in his hands, trying to back out again.

"Come on, Punk. Damn it." John looked up and saw that Ada, vying for a title as maybe the laziest cat in the world, was completely limp in Rodney's arms. He practically poured her into her carrier. John gave a last shove and Punk slid inside on her butt. He closed the gate quickly.

"I can't believe I'm on the lam," Rodney said. "It's kind of exciting, actually."

"You're on the lam with two cats and a cripple," John pointed out. "Not exactly James Bond material."

Rodney made a dismissive gesture. "Semantics."

John had to grin as he hauled on his backpack. The strap caught on the heel of his crutch, and he held it away to adjust his pack. Rodney bent and picked up the cat carriers, one in each hand, his pack already on his back.

"Your laptop?"

"In my bag. Can't leave it—it has everything on it."

A mocking voice came from the hallway. "That's good to know, Dr. McKay. Please do bring it with you."

Time slowed down. John tried to spin around, but his crutch was still in his hand, and the weight of his backpack pulled him off-balance. Rodney dropped the cat carriers with a yelp, Punk making a plaintive sound, and then John finally finished turning to face the man standing by the doorway. He had brown hair, a pale face, and a gun held firmly in his fist.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Rodney asked angrily.

"Me? The hallway closet, Dr. McKay. You really aren't James Bond, after all."

"I assume you're that Wallace asshole—"

"I'm deeply hurt," Wallace said with a crazed smirk. "You don't even know me."

"I know what you did," Rodney said shortly.

"Ah. Well," Wallace's brows went down, "I'm going to fix all that. You're going to help me find her." He stepped further into the room. "Or, shall I shoot your cats?" Wallace waved the gun at the cat carriers, then trained it directly on John. "Or, perhaps I know a better threat. Make no mistake—you _will_ help me, Dr. McKay. You're my only chance."

John pulled his eyes away from the gun to look at Rodney, who was already lifting his hands.

"Don't. Don't. I'll—" Rodney raised his chin. "I'll do whatever you want, just don't hurt John."

"I wouldn't think of it. In fact, if you come with me freely, I'll even leave your little barista boyfriend behind, safe and sound. Doesn't that seem like a good deal?"

John knew what Rodney would say. And he knew from the jut of Rodney's chin exactly what Rodney would do. He would go along with Wallace, and then he would refuse to build the bridge thing, and Wallace would lose the last of his marbles and kill him. God, Wallace would _kill_ Rodney.

John didn't even think about going for his gun; he'd never make it. But still he had the crutch, and he slipped his grip a little lower. When Wallace's eyes flicked back toward Rodney, John put his weight on his good leg and swung, low and fast and hard, and launched the crutch in the air like a boomerang directly at Wallace's face.

Wallace lifted both hands to try to fend it off, and fell over backward. It gave John enough time to drop, yanking Rodney with him, and reach behind his back for his Glock. And then it was as easy as flicking off the safety and aiming with cool precision, something he'd done a hundred times before, but never like this, never on U.S. soil, in Rodney's _house_ , with Rodney in his periphery watching wide-eyed. John fired, hitting Wallace's right shoulder, and Wallace dropped the pistol with a cry.

"No trade," John said hoarsely.

He took a deep breath, and time started again with a jolt. Suddenly he could hear the echo of the shot he'd just fired and feel his blood rushing crazily through his body, his heart pounding hard. Wallace was twitching on the floor, one hand pressed to his wound, and John limped over to him to kick the gun further away.

"Rodney, call the police."

"I—no, I—sitting down, now," Rodney said, and plopped from his crouch onto his ass.

"Okay. I'll call them."

"No, wait, call Carter first. Here—" Rodney dug into his pocket and fumbled out his cell phone. He almost dropped it handing it to John.

John popped back through the recent calls until he found the familiar 719 area code, then hit send.

"Colonel Carter? This is John Sheppard. We have a situation."

:::

Carter showed up way too quickly, trailed by a couple of servicemen in weird tac gear, and a corpsman, who immediately went to Wallace and took over John's first aid efforts.

"I just happened to be in the area," Carter said when she approached.

Rodney rolled his eyes and whispered to John, "I've got a lot to tell you."

The airmen lifted the unconscious Wallace onto a stretcher. Rodney was already talking a mile a minute when he retreated to the bedroom with Carter to fill her in, but John stayed behind, shaking in reaction, chills running through him. As the adrenaline faded, he slumped back, feeling old and tired and sick to his stomach.

He'd been ready to kill. If Wallace hadn't dropped the gun, John was pretty sure he would have kept on shooting. He wouldn't be surprised if Rodney didn't want to have anything to do with him after this.

But he'd stopped Wallace from taking Rodney at least, and with that thought the chills stopped, and he breathed easier. And his hip had held up okay, to his surprise. Maybe he'd been babying it too much. Maybe he needed to push harder.

Rodney and Carter came out after Wallace had been hauled away by the two servicemen. John was sitting on the couch with Punk and Ada, their heads resting on his legs. He petted Punk's dense, silvery-gray fur, mindlessly enjoying her deep purrs.

"Do you need to talk to me?" John asked. He started to get up, but his legs weren't behaving. Ada complained and dug her claws into his jeans.

"Nope, I think we've got it all clear." Carter looked at him curiously. "McKay tells me you were Air Force, too? A major?"

"Yeah. Twenty years."

"Well, I guess the old motto is true: _semper paratus_."

"Oh, he's always prepared. Even if it's just with a crutch," Rodney said.

Carter cracked a smile. Her teeth were even and white. She was a real knockout, John realized with a little bit of jealousy, wondering what Rodney had been up to the past month.

"Thanks for..." John waved, "...cleaning up," he finished helplessly.

"No problem. I could say the same. But this should be the end of it, now that we have him."

Carter headed for the door, Rodney trailing behind her.

"Stay out of trouble, McKay," she said.

"That's fully my intention. Thanks, uh...Sam." He held out his hand, and she shook it, giving John one last rueful look before leaving.

Rodney closed the door behind her.

"What was that about?" John asked.

"What was what?" Rodney looked completely done-in, and more than a little confused.

"That look she gave me when you shook her hand."

"I can't imagine. I don't want to imagine. Was she flirting with you? Because if she was, I can promise you it was nothing more than sour grapes. She's just sorry to have lost a chance at my incredible genes."

"You telling me Carter wants in your pants?"

Rodney drifted closer, almost swaying on his feet. "Well, she definitely wants a sample. Of course, she'd probably try to clone me with it."

"You're talking crazy." John lifted his hand. "Come over here. You're too far away." Rodney was hovering back, almost like he was scared or something. Christ, maybe he was, John thought, his earlier fear returning.

"Listen," Rodney said, coming closer, "I—I can't believe what you did."

"I did what I had to," John responded automatically. "I did...what I was trained to do. I'm sorry if—"

"It couldn't have been easy." Rodney was only a foot away now, and he finally sat down by John's leg.

"Shooting isn't the hard part." It never was. Living with it, on the other hand— "And anyway, I couldn't just let you just go. Jesus Christ, you were going to walk out with him and then he was going to freak out when you didn't do what he wanted, and he would have killed you. I couldn't let that happen, okay? So, I'm sorry if you—"

Rodney's hand clamped over John's mouth. "Stop apologizing. Stop it. It wasn't your fault. It was all my fault, all right? My past caught up with me. _I_ got us into this situation—" And then Rodney pulled away his hand and kissed John, hot and fast, a frenzied kiss full of everything, just everything, and John opened up and thrust his tongue into Rodney's mouth, wanting him to feel it too—that they'd made it, and were here, and that was an amazing thing.

"God," John murmured when he tore his mouth away, "I've missed you. So goddamn much, you have no idea. Is it done? You don't have to leave again?"

"Never." Rodney's eyes were bright with something. "Not without you."

John swallowed and kissed him again, pulling him in with one hand. "Good," John whispered. "Because I don't think—I can't—"

"I know, John," Rodney said, mercifully cutting him off. "I'm really sorry."

"Yeah, well, blame the crazy guy with the automatic."

"I fully intend to."

They kissed some more, until John was so turned on he couldn't stand another nibble of Rodney's lips, another sweet push of his tongue. It had been way, way too long, and John pulled back, completely out of control, and whispered, "I wanna fuck you. I wanna fuck you, Rodney, so bad—"

"You can." Rodney's lips were red and raw-looking. "You know that."

"I _can't_. Fucking useless gimp, remember?" God, he was so frustrated. He wanted to fuck Rodney straight through the mattress.

"Come on." Rodney sat up and offered his hands, then pulled John to his feet. "We'll think of something."

The bedroom was cold and dark, and John went over to the heating vent and flicked it open before stripping down in a hurry. Rodney was bent over the bed pulling back the covers, and his ass—Jesus, what an ass. John limped toward him, cock and balls feeling full and heavy, and leaned over Rodney's back so he could slide himself between Rodney's cheeks.

"John," Rodney groaned and twisted his head so John could kiss him. "I wish, but there's no way I'm going to be responsible for sending you back to Ronon's table. Come here and lie down."

"But you said—" John bit back his disappointment and lay on the bed. Rodney crawled up over him and rested his cheek on John's good hip.

"You can start by fucking my mouth," Rodney said.

"God, yeah."

But John didn't have to do much, just lie there and get sucked by Rodney's sweet, hot mouth. It had been over a month of missing this, of missing Rodney and Rodney's smell and Rodney's warm, deft fingers, and John found himself coming in no time at all, coming too hard with a sharp edge of relief. He was a little disappointed to have it end so soon, but then Rodney kissed him on his soft cock and sat up to comb through his nightstand.

"What're you looking for?" John asked lazily, still coming down.

"You'll see, Mr. Nosy McNose." Rodney's shoulders flexed, and John ran a hand along the firm muscles, then traced the knobs of Rodney's spine just to see him straighten with a sudden shiver. Rodney turned, and he was holding a bottle of lube and—Jesus, it was a dildo. John's mouth suddenly went dry. The dildo was thick and dark blue and shaped like a big, veiny cock.

Rodney's eyes looked a little uncertain, like he thought John would be turned off or something, but John's nuts were throbbing like he could get it up again, just from the thought of Rodney using that thing on himself, fucking himself open late at night with his legs spread—

"I'm so gonna fuck you with that," John said, reaching out. "I'm gonna fuck you until your ass is stretched wide open."

Rodney swallowed with a weird noise, almost like a bleat, and John found himself smiling wickedly.

"You want that, don't you? Want me to put this in you and fuck your ass with it."

"Jesus Christ, John," Rodney groaned and crawled onto the bed, face down, to spread his legs. "Please."

"Have to get you ready first." John uncapped the lube.

"You might want to put a condom on it before your hands get slippery," Rodney said, all practicality.

"Good idea." John got a condom from the drawer and snapped it on the dildo, then sat on his left hip on the side of the bed. Rodney's pale, perfect ass was calling to him, and John bent over and sucked a mark onto one of Rodney's cheeks.

"Oh!"

"Pretty, pretty ass there, McKay." John saw Rodney's neck turning red, and grinned. "Gonna fuck it good."

"You are so nasty," Rodney said approvingly.

John got his fingers good and slick and worked two of them into Rodney's hole. Rodney seemed ready for it, opening to John's fingers with a moan that made John's dick twitch. John made sure he coated Rodney's ass thoroughly before drawing his fingers out. Then he picked up the dildo and spread some lube on it as well.

"You ready for this?" John held open Rodney's cheeks and rubbed the tip of the dildo against his glistening hole.

Rodney just groaned.

John pushed and watched the head disappear, watched Rodney spreading to take it. It was nasty and hot and made John's belly warm with relief. Rodney wanted it, Rodney was loving it, moaning, his pale hips hitching up when John pushed deeper and stroked a slick finger against the tight muscle stretching around the dildo.

A muffled sound told John that Rodney had buried his face in his pillow, but he was still moving his hips minutely, helping with his own impalement. John leaned over and whispered in his ear, "How's that for you? You want more?"

Rodney's response was a muffled whine, and John used short, slow strokes to push the dildo in all the way, watching in amazement as Rodney spread his legs and took it.

"You are so hot. You have no idea how hot you look," John said, starting to push in and out. "I can't wait to do this with my cock, feel you take it. God."

Rodney was moaning continuously now, his hands fisting the pillow next to his head, and he rocked back against the dildo, meeting John's thrusts. John was fucking him harder now, and he really was fucking Rodney, he realized. Maybe he wasn't doing it with his cock, but Rodney didn't seem to give a damn.

John paused to switch hands so he could rub behind Rodney's balls, feeling the stiff dildo moving under Rodney's skin, and then John cradled Rodney's balls in his hand and fondled them. He felt them tighten up, and Rodney lifted his head and yelled, "God! John, John—" like John was killing him, and John watched him come, watched his ass tighten around the big dildo.

 _So fucking hot._ When did he get this lucky, that he had a hot, slightly kinky boyfriend who gave him everything he didn't know he needed?

Gently withdrawing the dildo, John pulled Rodney onto his back so he could kiss him. "You have no idea," John repeated, and Rodney mumbled something about the wet spot and kissed him back, eyes half-closed and glazed-looking.

John pulled away to trash the rubber and drop the dildo back in the drawer. Rodney was still shivering, little quakes and tremors, so John pushed close to him, letting his bad leg rest over Rodney's thigh. It was the most comfortable position possible—Rodney was warm and solid, and supported him.

John snaked a hand around Rodney's shoulder and tucked it underneath. He planned to hold onto Rodney all night if he could.

Forever, if it was an option.

:::

"That's it? Really?" John asked Gina, who was cleaning the ultrasound gel off John's hip with a damp towel. "I don't have to come back?"

"Nope. The rest you do on your own. Keep up with the stretching, or you'll regret it. And remember: no limping."

"Yeah, okay." It was hard not to limp; years of pain had changed the way he walked, so his body kept falling back into the old rhythm even now, when there wasn't much reason for it. The hip still gave him twinges, but nothing like it had. The healing had happened so gradually John still found it hard to believe it had happened, but it was true—he wasn't in constant pain any longer.

He even had the go-ahead to start _jogging,_ he recalled with a smile.

"Thanks for all the torture." John offered his hand and Gina gave it a shake, her brown eyes glinting.

"It was my pleasure."

"I'll bet."

They both laughed a little, then John said, "Seriously. Thanks, Gina."

"You did most of the work."

He nodded, but it didn't feel that way. Gina had been there pushing him all along, a tiny drill sergeant in yoga pants and a T-shirt that read, _Don't mess with me, I get PAID to hurt people._

John pulled up his sweats and walked, trying not to limp, over to the lockers to get his bag. When he pulled his PDA out to check the time, he realized he'd better get moving. Rodney was expecting him at the museum in forty-five minutes, and he had to circle around the top of the city to get there.

The weather was perfect, the sun shining with a brisk breeze coming off the ocean that kept him cool while he rode up along Fisherman's Wharf. His legs felt strong. He'd been all over the hills of the city since he started riding again, enjoying his new-found freedom, and was probably in the best shape of his life thanks to not having a car.

While he rode, he thought about the menu for the get-together he was planning for the next day. He wanted to have everyone—Ronon, Teyla, Ahs, Monica, Sandi, Zeke, and Rodney—all in a room together. And then John would, goddammit, tell them all how grateful he was for their help these past three months. Even if he had to stutter the words out one by one.

And he'd have to pull in Keith, too, if he was free. Keith had finally secured a regular pipeline of Moloka'i straight from the Islands, and Fair Trade was going to start regular production of Rodney's signature blend in just a week or so. They were still dithering on the name—John wanted Molorojo, but Rodney was still arguing for the original Rojomolo. They were driving Sandi crazy since she had to finish creating the label. But either way, it was bound to sell like hotcakes in spite of the high price. The stuff was a cup of heaven.

John cruised effortlessly up the steep hill by Mariner's Park and then down along Crissy. In no time at all he was making the quick duck between the old army buildings and entering the parking lot behind the Exploratorium, where he stopped and locked his bike to the rack.

Inside, he found Rodney yelling at one of the contractors about the lighting of the new exhibit.

"Don't mind him," John said, sliding a hand around the small of Rodney's back, "he just needs coffee."

"I _always_ need coffee," Rodney said grumpily, "but that doesn't mean I want small children blinded by a poorly directed spotlight."

"I'll adjust it right now, Dr. McKay," the contractor said. "Like I said—I'm just waiting on the big ladder."

"Fine, fine. Just get it done. And you," Rodney turned to John, voice going soft, "You're all sweaty."

"Hilly ride."

"I have no problem with sweaty," Rodney said, leaning in to kiss him.

"Mmm. Good."

"But Dr. Weir might if you show up at the opening like that."

"I brought a change of clothes. Thought I could use the employee showers."

"Go to it, then, and leave me to panic in peace."

John gave Rodney's shoulder a bump and then did as instructed. He was just pulling on a white, button-down shirt when Rodney showed up in the locker room carrying a wardrobe bag.

"My suit," he said, lifting the bag. "Also, I brought your jacket, in case, you know, you wanted to dress up."

"Cool," John said. "I couldn't figure out how to carry it on the bike without getting it wrinkled."

"That's what you have me for."

"For carrying things?" John raised an eyebrow.

Rodney sniffed. "For figuring things out."

"Oh, like you figured out the solubility equation for the Fifteen Puzzle that I posted two days ago?"

Rodney scowled fiercely. "Busy, remember? Giant new exhibit going public? Hoards of ill-mannered contractors to order around?"

"Butt-cracks to avoid staring at."

"Ha. Ha. Funny-man." Rodney hooked the wardrobe bag over an open locker and started changing. "Not to mention my kinky boyfriend kept me up half the night showing off his new-found flexibility."

John grinned. "Good times."

"Good times, indeed." The shiny gray shirt and velvety jacket suited Rodney pretty damned fine, and John had to suppress an urge to kiss him messy and wrinkled. _Later_ , John promised himself.

Instead, he slid his own jacket off the hanger and pulled it on, then went to the bathroom to see if anything could be done about his hair. As usually, there was nothing to do but stare at it and shrug. Rodney came up next to him to wash his hands, and then stood looking at them both them in the mirror.

"We look good."

"Extra sharp," John agreed.

"Four hundred people are attending the opening." Rodney sounded nervous. "Dr. Weir was very pleasantly surprised, but she said we'll have to 'wait and see' what the response is before she'll declare it a success."

"It will be. It's awesome."

"You're just saying that because I pay you in blow-jobs."

"I'm saying that because it's true." John turned and put his hand on Rodney's shoulder right by his neck so he could rub his thumb over Rodney's too-rapid pulse. "It's totally awesome. Kids will go nuts for it, and parents will be happy because they'll be teaching their kids to love science."

"And things that explode."

"And things that explode," John agreed easily. "Because you can never have enough of that."

Rodney grinned weakly, and John could tell he wouldn't be satisfied until all the reviews were in and the ticket sales had skyrocketed.

"Come on, your public awaits."

:::

John was glad to see Zeke and Anna had showed up, both of them looking around curiously. He wondered if they'd ever come to the museum before; he'd bet dollars that as soon as Dylan was old enough, Zeke would be back to point him at the water cannon and the giant bubble-maker, and the hot balloon demonstration that had Zeke chortling out loud as he tried to direct the tiny zeppelin.

John was showing Ahsarvat the Bat Sonar exhibit—Ahs was crazy about bats—when a small hand touched John's waist. He turned to see Teyla's smiling eyes.

"Teyla! Wow, you look—wow."

Teyla was decked out in a shimmery gold tank top that flexed as she breathed. John was a little mesmerized, and had to drag his eyes away when she put her hands on his shoulders.

"You look very well, John."

"I am, thanks."

"And Ronon tells me you finished physical therapy today."

"He knows already? Yeah, Gina just gave me the green light."

"I'm so pleased. How is the roastery? I'm afraid I've been a little too busy lately for our Sunday crossword."

"Yeah, I've been wondering where you got off to."

Teyla crinkled her eyes and waved someone over. A tall guy with short, dark hair and intense-looking eyes came to her side.

"This is my boyfriend, Kanaan."

"Hey. It's nice to meet you," John said, offering his hand. He looked around for Rodney, and saw him surrounded by a group of people smiling while Rodney talked and waved his hands. "Uh, that's Rodney over there," John said to Kanaan. "My guy. We'll catch him later when he isn't surrounded by adoring fans."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, John. Teyla has told me much."

"Would you guys mind coming by the café tomorrow afternoon if you're free?" John scratched the back of his head. "I want to have—sorta like a party. If you're free."

Teyla shared a look with Kanaan. "We'd like that," she said.

John was about to respond when he saw Sandi push through the door, Ronon just behind her. And behind Ronon was—

"I don't believe it. Teyla, look!" John pointed, and Teyla flicked her eyes over and then smiled broadly.

"We should greet him."

"Yeah," John said, completely dazed. He walked over, thinking fiercely, _don't limp_ , because that was Mighty Hal standing next to Ronon, a huge grin splitting his face as John approached.

"Ronon, Hal. What the hell—?"

"Hello, Hal," Teyla said more sedately at his side.

"Teyla." Hal lifted her hand for a kiss and shared a smile with her, then then turned to John. "Shep. Look at you." He hauled John into a bone-crushing hug and pounded his back twice before letting him go. "Let me see it."

John felt himself flushing, but he lifted his left foot and stood on his right, flashing back to the countless times he'd balanced on Gina's wobble-board while she tossed a medicine ball at him. There was only dull twinge of pain. "See? Good as new."

"Good as new," Hal said wonderingly, his tanned face wrinkling with delight.

"Told you," Ronon said. "Think you can lay off me now?"

"I'll think about it," Hal said.

"But what the heck are you doing here, Hal?"

Scratching his bearded chin, Hal said, "Well, I'm getting a little creaky for field work, and Teyla's trying to convince me to settle out here at the V.A. Thought I'd come take a look."

"I'm certain once he's seen our city he won't ever wish to leave," Teyla said to John with a wicked grin.

"I think I can handle that." Hal shook his head. "It's really good to see you crazy kids all together."

"Come to the café tomorrow. I've got Teyla and Kanaan convinced, and I'm hoping Sandi can get Ronon to come, too."

"Sure thing, boss. I've got him wrapped up." Sandi grinned, her cheeks shining with what looked like sparkles or glitter.

"Hal, I want you to meet Rodney. Let's see if we can find him."

"Also, we're all blocking the door," Ronon said, sounding amused.

John scanned the big room and saw Rodney over by one of the exhibits he hadn't seen yet. Turning, John waved everyone to follow him and walked ahead, conscious of trying to keep his stride even. Maybe it wasn't habit yet, but it felt good to swing his leg out and trust it to hold beneath him.

"Hey, Rodney," John said, squeezing his way past the nicely dressed couple talking to him. He gave Rodney a kiss on the cheek; Rodney's face was flushed, his skin hot under John's lips. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"Yes, yes. But wait—I have to tell you—" Rodney turned and waved off the couple. "Thanks for coming, please do come again. Always more to see." Then he dragged John around and pulled him down to whisper, "You won't believe it; someone from the CSC is here and they want me. They want to give me a whole floor of their newly renovated science museum."

"Who's the CSC?"

"The California Science Center down in Los Angeles. Huge—they are _huge_ , with a gigantic budget and access to decommissioned NASA resources. It's the motherlode."

Rodney was talking so fast John could barely keep up, except he got this was a big deal, and he planted a kiss on the corner of Rodney's mouth and said, "Congratulations, buddy. You fucking deserve it."

"I do? I do. Yes, I do, because, well, I'm brilliant, really—"

"And you've been a good boy."

"That's patently untrue," Rodney said with a smirk. "As you well know."

"I'll say—" John was interrupted by Hal's hand landing on his shoulder, and turned to introduce him to Rodney.

"Hal, this is my partner, Dr. Rodney McKay. He's—" John had to stop and start again, "—he's the reason I'm standing here. No joke. He also designed this whole exhibit. Rodney, this is Dr. David Haloran."

Hal stuck out a paw. "Nice to meet you, Rodney. Can't believe you put up with this joker—"

"Hey, now."

"It's not that difficult," Rodney said. "He keeps me in coffee, after all."

Hal smiled warmly and clapped John's arm where it was draped over Rodney's shoulder. "And what's this exhibit?" Hal asked, looking up. John followed his eyes and recognized it immediately—a giant shiny Möbius strip with a stylized car sitting on a track.

Rodney was looking at John when he said, "Push the button and see."

John swallowed and pushed the button. The little car started to move, looping over and down and around and then back again to where it began, and John felt like he was moving with it, like all the threads of his life had joined themselves, sewing up the broken places to leave him standing whole again. All with a few seamless twists of time.

"Awesome," John whispered.

"I think I know what we should name the new blend, after all," Rodney said, his eyes shining.

"Yeah," John said, and he pulled Rodney closer.

Above their heads, the little car went round and around.

  


_End._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Walk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/249336) by [squidgie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie)




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